Ranger's Reputation
by AutumnDreaming
Summary: Set after Notorious Nineteen. Stephanie tackles the mystery of Ranger's hot cars. Ranger could be wanted for murder when Stephanie loses Ranger's hottest car yet. It's a hilarious ride in a Porsche Panamera for the usual crew of miscreants, but Morelli isn't laughing. Time is running out for Stephanie to set things right. Will she ruin Ranger's rep, or save it? Totally Babe.
1. Summer Daze

Setting: Just after Notorious Nineteen

My name is Stephanie Plum. I'm a bond enforcement agent, working for my cousin, Vinnie. Due to my consistent ability to bring in low-bond skips, I am usually able to make rent at least every other month. This was not one of those months.

I was desperate, and for that reason alone, I was sitting with the windows down in the sweltering sun of late summer, waiting for Brian Dozer to leave his apartment so I could nab him. Dozer was a wanted man because he failed to appear in court the day before. He was arrested for having a joint tucked behind his ear at a traffic stop. Apparently wacky tobacky doesn't make him paranoid enough. I was hoping he'd be just as mellow when I approached him to take him back to jail.

I was wringing out a handkerchief through my side window when the passenger door opened, making me jump. I dropped the handkerchief and cursed.

"Babe." It was Ranger, and from his tone, I knew I wasn't looking too good. My mascara was probably running. I felt like I'd been hit with a hose.

I gave him a death glare. "Don't start," I warned, not in the mood. Sweat was dripping from my ponytail, and I looked and smelled like a drowned rat.

"You know it's 113 degrees?"

I rolled my eyes. How could I fail to notice the hellish heat, sitting in my '74 Dodge Dart P.O.S.?

"That's why the windows are down," I told him, with attitude. "Besides, it's white, so it reflects the heat." Actually, it was creamy rust, with a black interior.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not amused.

"I'm making rent," I told him.

"Doesn't do you any good if you're dead," he said, serious.

"I'm fine," I assured him.

"You're not fine. You're coming with me," he said, handing me a bottle of water.

Just then, Dozer came down the steps. I wrenched my door open and found that my legs weren't all that steady. They're just asleep, I told myself. I'd been sitting there for four hours straight, not even needing to use the bathroom. I willed myself forward and, with great effort, I stumbled across the street. Dozer looked up at me, surprised when I called his name. Then he raced forward and caught me just before I tumbled into the postage stamp of crisp, withered grass in front of the house.

"My name is Stephanie Plum," I said in a hoarse voice. "I'm here to take you in." What? Where did that come from? That wasn't my usual line. And were my words slurred?

Recognition came to his eyes. He glanced up at Ranger, then he dropped me and took off running down the street. Before I knew what was happening, I heard the Dart roar to life as the car whipped around 180 degrees in the middle of the street, burning rubber. It was like stop motion for a few moments. I collapsed on the grass, my eyes trying to focus on the vanishing figure of Dozer. Then Ranger grabbed me under the arms and tossed me into the passenger seat of my car. Then, we were careening down the street, screeching around the corner. We weren't slowing down. Why weren't we slowing down? Dozer was getting bigger and bigger. Suddenly, Dozer's face was pressed into the windshield right in front of me. I watched his teeth scraping the dried bug guts, leaving a clean streak until his chin rested on the windshield wiper. Ranger whipped the car to the right, and Dozer slid towards the driver's side of the car. Ranger reached out the side window and grabbed Dozer's arm as we came to a stop. I heard the click of handcuffs and Dozer's surprised gasp as his body hit the pavement.

Ranger's phone chirped, and he answered it. "Yo." He listened for a few seconds, and then hung up and dialed another number. "Can you assist Stephanie? She's got a skip in custody, but she's pretty dehydrated. I don't want her driving right now." I heard someone answer. "Just a few blocks," he said. His mouth tightened. He was not liking the answer. "Fine," he growled, ending the call.

"Gotta go, Babe," he said, opening the water bottle and putting it in my hand. "Drink this, right now."

I gulped it down like it was nothing. I could have drank a couple gallons of water.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I can drive eight blocks," I assured him.

"I don't like it, but I don't have a choice right now," he said. "You need to get out of this heat. Drive. Don't wait for backup. The heat has the cops spread thin."

I nodded. "I'm fine," I said.

Ranger opened the driver's side door, pushing Dozer's prone body out of the way as he got out. He reached down and smacked him a few times to rouse him.

"Stephanie is going to take you to the cop shop, and you're going to go peacefully, or I'll find you," Ranger promised, cuffing him to the chrome door handle. From the look on Dozer's face, I was pretty sure his pants were wet with more than sweat.

Dozer nodded. Ranger reached up and untangled a joint from the hair behind Dozer's left ear, shaking his head in disgust. He ground it in his fingers and tossed it away.

I slid over to the driver's side and rolled up the window so Dozer couldn't reach me after Ranger left.

"Babe," Ranger groaned.

I opened the little wing window in front. I could feel Ranger mentally rolling his eyes at me.

"Get going," he said. He waited for me to start slowly down the street. Dozer was starting to panic as he began to jog beside the car. Spots were dancing before my eyes, but I grit my teeth, determined to make it without incident.

I checked the rear view mirror and saw Ranger jogging back to a shiny new sports car I had never seen before. That's when it hit me...Ranger had actually driven one of my P.O.S. cars! I started laughing, softly at first, then louder and louder.

Dozer was clearly worried. He hit the window with his hand. "Are you okay in there?" he asked. "You can roll the window down! Hey! Wait! We're going too fast! Slow down! Help!"

We were doing about 10 miles per hour, according to the speedometer...not that I was sure it worked. Still, I decided to crack the window a few inches.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," I promised.

"Slow down!," he begged. "My shoes are getting heavy!"

"Yeah, right," I said. "I'm not falling for that one."

"I'm serious! I'm losing my shoes!" he screamed at me.

I tried to look down, but he was too close to the door, and I couldn't see anything.

"My shoe!" he yelled. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a red and black sneaker bouncing down the street behind us. "Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!" he cried as he limped beside me.

"I thought your shoes were all red," I said, glancing over at him.

"The asphalt is melting, and sticking to my SHOES! Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch," he cried twice as fast. He was complaining with each foot fall now. I looked back in time to see the other shoe tumbling down the street.

"Almost there," I assured him. "Good thing you're wearing socks."

"Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!"

I bit my lip as we pulled through the gate into the parking lot. My good friend, Eddy Gazarra, was standing there, hands on hips, watching as we approached.

"Help! I'm burning! Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!"

"You are wearing socks, aren't you?" I asked nervously.

"I was," he cried as Eddy uncuffed him from the door handle and he and Carl Costanza carried Dozer inside.

What can I say? I get paid to bring them in, dead or alive. Although, I wasn't sure how Vinnie was going to feel about barbecued.


	2. The Panamera

Author's Note: If you want to see Ranger's cars up close and personal, go to YouTube, search "2014 Porsche 911 Turbo S " for a dreamy commercial, and in Rangeman black at "DelcoMotorsports - 2012 Porsche 911 Turbo S - HD". Check out "2012 Porsche Cayenne Turbo - AutoTrader New Car Review " to see Ranger's Porsche Cayenne. For more try "New Porsche Cayenne Turbo S 2013 Driven Road Test " posted by CarJamRadio. Search "Porsche Panamera Turbo Review." by thechauffeurcom or "2013 Porsche Panamera GTS AutoTrader New Car Review ". This video is not as good, but here's the full tour of some of the options: "2011 Porsche Panamera 4 3.6 Start Up, Engine, and In Depth Review".

But before you go thinking Ranger's tastes are going all European sports track, check out this quick clip of a shiny, black Panamera Turbo creeping through the night life, "Slim Thug New Car, a 2011 Porsche Panamera Turbo". Yeah...there's the excitement and danger we're talking about...very Ranger.

Chapter 2

I was sitting on a bench by the empty water cooler, licking the last drop of water out of my Dixie cup. I was waiting for Gazarra to return with a fresh 5-gallon bottle, since I just drained the last one. I jumped when someone sat down on the other end of the bench, dropping my Dixie cup.

"That's twice," I growled at Ranger.

He was thinking about smiling, so I narrowed my eyes until he thought better of it.

"Babe."

"Thanks," I said, limply flashing my body receipt so he could see it. I knew I wouldn't have captured Dozer without his help. Hell, I'd have been mugged and left for dead.

Ranger gave me a single nod.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, leaning back against the cool wall. I had almost stopped sweating.

Ranger flicked his own body receipt for me to see.

"Ah," I said. My eyes were still burning globes, so I closed them and thought about taking a nap.

"Babe," he said, sounding worried again.

"I'm fine," I mumbled.

Ranger's cell chirped and he answered it. "Yo." I could hear Tank's deep bass on the other end. "Take care of it." And he disconnected.

I opened one eye, curious.

Ranger got up, and my end of the bench dropped down a couple inches. Reaching into his pocket, he produced what looked like a large flash drive on a keychain. I looked at him questioningly. He leaned over, pressing the black key fob with the Porsche crest into my hand.

"What's this?"

"I want you out of the heat. You got your man. Pay your rent and go home. Take a nap."

I squinted up at him, failing to give a true death glare.

"Please?" he said, sounding a little desperate.

"What about you?"

"I'll get a ride with Tank."

I looked down at the fob in my hand. "What's this?"

"It's just a car," he said, turning to go.

I blinked a few times to clear my vision. "This is a car key?" I asked, not sure.

Ranger was already headed down the hall. He just gave me a curt waive of his hand, which I took to mean, "You'll figure it out."

Eddie strolled past Ranger with a 5-gallon bottle of water on his shoulder. He was about to yank the empty bottle off the cooler when he looked down to see what Ranger had given me. The next thing I knew, I was splashed head to toe with cool water.

"What the...?" I spluttered at Eddie, who was standing dumbstruck, staring at me. Then his eyes darted down the hall as the door closed behind Ranger.

What the...?" Eddie stammered, pointing at the key in my hand. "He...you...that's...no way." He shook his head in disgust and disbelief. "He did not give you that car," Eddie said, still shaking his head as he slipped a little in the puddle of water.

I looked longingly at the empty cooler. I got up and squeezed a fist-full of my shirt into my Dixie Cup and tossed it back as I started down the hall to the parking lot. Ranger was right. I'd had enough for one day, I thought.

"Gazarra!" the chief bellowed from a distance.

"I know!" he barked back, equally annoyed. "I'll get it cleaned up," Eddie growled, sliding a little as he bent to pick up the broken pieces of plastic. I thought I heard him mumble something about life not being fair as I pushed through the doors.

I walked into the blinding glare of the sun and started looking for my P.O.S. I at least needed to get my things. But it was no where in sight. I spun around in confusion, catching sight of it on the back of a flat bed hauler two blocks away. "Hey!" I shouted, but no one was listening. I narrowed my eyes. Ranger had towed my car. I spun around again, then headed for the shiniest, blackest, newest car in the parking lot. I looked down at the key fob and pressed the unlock button. It chirped and I got in. I saw the key slot, but there was nothing to stick in it but the end of the fob. It looked a little like a USB drive. I pressed the key and it fit. I fiddled with it a little, and the car roared to life. The A/C was on, and I sat back in the plush leather seat and let the cool air blow on me for a few minutes. There were so many buttons and gauges and options I didn't know what I was looking at. Ranger's Turbo had always felt like the cockpit of a plane to me, but this was the Space Shuttle. I gave everything the once over, found a radio station I liked, and then backed out of the parking space and headed for the bond's office.

I could see Connie and Lula plastered to the window as I climbed out of the car. I set the alarm and pushed through the door, waiving the body receipt to Connie.

"Can I sign this over to you for cash? Please?" I begged. "I've got to pay something on my rent, and I don't want to deal with the bank today. I just want to go home and crawl in bed."

Connie acted like she hadn't heard me. Her face was still stuck to the glass.

"Say what?" Lula squealed. "You sick or something? You got THAT car...THAT car right there," she said, pointing frantically at Ranger's new Porsche, "and you're going to crawl into bed?"

"I'm seriously dehydrated," I told her, trying to yell, but only sounding miserable. "I feel sick," I mumbled, sliding down onto the leather sofa.

This got Connie's attention. She ran over to the apartment size fridge and grabbed two bottles of water for me. "Here, drink up," she said, opening one for me.

I took it gratefully and chugged it. She handed me the other, and I downed it too. Then I pressed my hand to my forehead, gasping at the brain freeze I was getting. I sucked air through my teeth. "Ow!" I growled.

"Maybe you should take it slow," Lula suggested.

I glared at her. "Thanks for the hot tip."

"Yeah, guess you could have used that one a few minutes ago, huh?" She shrugged.

"What did you have to do to get _that_ car?" Connie asked breathlessly. "Details, Steph. We want all the details."

"Yeah," Lula chorused. "We want all the juicy Ranger details."

I rolled my eyes. "Nothing happened." I told them about Dozer.

"Well, I can see why Ranger chased him down in your car. No way I'd run down a skip with that beautiful machine," Lula purred. "Look at it. That's perfection right there."

"Do you have any idea what that is?" Connie asked, handing me a third bottle.

"No, and I don't care," I said, sipping the water.

"Whoa," Lula said, taking a step back. "Woman, that man just declared his undying love for you, and you don't care?"

I rolled my eyes at her. "Ranger said it's just a car. Those were his words."

"That ain't just a car," she said, shaking her head. "Nuh-uh. You ask any man. That's true love right there."

"I have to agree with Lula on this one," Connie said. "This I have to see." She got up and headed out the door with Lula hot on her heels.

"My check," I croaked. I relaxed back into the sofa, thinking maybe I'd just take a nap right there.

I was dozing, half listening to Connie and Lula chattering away as they looked up the Porsche Panamera Turbo S online.

"It starts at $75K…up to...oh my god…and it's _turbo_. I'm finding the base model at $140K, plus features...oh my god! Turbo S...holy cow!" Connie gasped. Her fingers were flying on her adding machine, the tape was hanging down to the floor, and she was still going.

"What? How much is that thing worth?" Lula wanted to know.

"I have no idea," Connie gushed. "If it's fully loaded...with all the options...it's astronomical."

"It's the Space Shuttle," I mumbled.

"Get out!" Lula squealed, looking over Connie's shoulder. "That can't be...Stephanie's car?"

"Ranger's car," I corrected her. "Just borrowing..." I said, rubbing an itch on my nose on the edge of the cushion so I didn't have to lift my arm to scratch it.

"You best be avoiding Morelli while you have that car," Lula warned. "Trust me, you can't have both at the same time."

"Again, I have to agree with Lula," Connie said. "I don't care what Ranger told you...no man gives a woman keys to a car like that without a damn good reason. That would be insane, and no one here thinks Batman is insane. Not even Morelli will believe that."

I sighed. "I'd give it back, but Ranger stole my car."

"Say what?" Lula asked.

"He had my Dart towed."

"Good for him!" Connie cheered. "Someone needed to."

"It was still running," I complained.

"It was a butt ugly death trap," Lula told me, "just like all your other cars."

"So what's new?"

"That!" they said in unison, pointing out the window.

"Can I have my capture check, please?" I asked Connie. "I mean...capture cash?"

"Yeah, sure," Connie groaned, digging out the check book. "Get over here and sign it back to me and I'll cash it."

I rolled off the couch, feeling marginally better than when I sank onto it. I scrawled my name on the back of the check, and Connie handed me $300. I rolled my eyes and slipped the bills into my pocket.

"Now what's your problem?" Connie asked.

"I need three and half more skips like that to get my rent paid up."

"No you don't," Lula said. "You got a winning ticket right there," she said, jerking her thumb at the car.

"What do you mean?"

"Girl, all you gotta do is charge admission."

"Admission?"

"Hell, yeah. Folks would pay good money to go for a ride in the Space Shuttle."

"She's got a point," Connie agreed.

"How much do you need?"

"I owe two months rent. I'm $700 light."

"Well, I think $25 for ten minutes would be fair. So, you just go around the block a time or two. Do that 30 times and you're in the black."

I rolled my eyes. "And just where would I find 30 people willing to pay me $25 to drive them around the block. It's not a taxi."

"Well, I don't know. In my neighborhood..."

I held up my hand. "We are not taking Ranger's Porsche to your neighborhood," I said firmly. "Things get blown up and stolen in your neighborhood."

"That's true," Lula agreed.

"What about someplace in the Berg?" Connie asked.

"There's got to be someplace where people with money to spend, dying for a little excitement, congregate during the middle of the working day...in the Berg."

Connie and Lula looked at each other.

"Beauty parlor," they shouted.

"Oh, no," I said, shaking my head.

"Your Grandma Mazur is probably over at Clara's right now. That's an easy $25 right there," Lula said.

"I'm not charging my grandma for a ride in Ranger's new car," I told her.

"Why not? I'm sure she'd think it was a hoot," Lula argued.

"You want to make rent or not?" Connie asked. "It's that simple," she said, waiving a twenty and a five seductively under my nose.

I hated struggling with these moral dilemmas. I threw up my hands, then grabbed Connie's bills.

"Actually, I only need 28 to make rent, so that just leaves 27 more to go," I said, holding my hand out to Lula expectantly.

"What?" Lula asked, doing a palms up.

"You wanna ride, or what?"

"I'm your partner. Partner's don't pay," she complained, hands on hips. "Besides, it was my idea. I should get a percentage."

"Don't push it," I warned. "You want a ride, get going," I told her, grabbing my bag and heading for the door.

"Wait for me," Connie called. "But just once around the block. You have to drop me back here before Vinnie gets back from his Shiatsu appointment.

I was circling Clara's with three blue haired ladies on their fourth consecutive tour of the neighborhood when my cell phone rang.

"Yo," I answered.

"Trouble parking?" Ranger asked.

Crap.

"No, why?"

"You've been driving in circles around the Berg for over an hour. You're not looking for another skip, are you?"

"Not exactly."

"Babe?"

"Where are you?"

Silence. Crapitty crap, crap, crap. I looked in my rear view mirror, knowing what I would see. Ranger was behind me in the Cayenne.

"Oh," I said, giving him a little finger waive.

"Babe," he growled, sounding none too pleased.

I pulled to the curb in front of Clara's.

"One more time!" the ladies cheered, thrusting twenties under my nose.

"No can do, ladies. Sorry. Ride's over. Maybe we can do it again sometime."

They all piled out and I saw Lula and Grandma peeking out the glass door of the salon, waiting to see the action.

Ranger got out of his car and came over to me. Opening the door, he pulled me out and looked me right in the eye.

"What are you doing, Babe?" he asked, looking down a my fist full of twenties.

"Making rent," I told him, feeling a little ashamed and embarrassed, but also annoyed. He took my car. He gave me this one. What business was it of his?

"How much do you need?" he asked.

"Nothing, now," I told him.

"You're in the black?" he asked, a smile playing on the corner of his lips for a moment.

"Yeah."

"Good, 'cause you're done. I'll follow you to the bond's office."

He pushed me back into the car and shut the door. I watched him walk back to the Cayenne as I waived to Lula. She scurried out the door and hopped in. We took off, and Ranger was on my bumper all the way to the office.

When I pulled up, I could see Connie sitting at her desk, filing her nails, her eyes wide as saucers when she noticed Ranger tailing me. I waited for Ranger to get out of the Cayenne, hoping he was going to drive on. When he parked, I briefly considered taking off, but I knew he'd catch me...eventually. So I slowly climbed out, and Lula followed. I beeped the alarm on, and waited for Ranger.

"We'll be in," Ranger told Lula, excusing her while cutting his eyes to me, "in a minute."

She trotted off towards the office, giving me her "now you done it" look. I rolled my eyes.

Then he walked me to the alley and pressed me against the side of the building.

"I told you to go home," he said, a menacing tone in his voice.

I felt him remove the key from my hand as he dropped the keys to the Cayenne into my bag. He was trading me vehicles.

"I know you can't appreciate that I have a reputation to uphold," he breathed, " but you should know that I'm going to get even with you for this."

"You're going to get even with me?" I asked, incredulous. "You stole my car!"

Ranger responded by pressing me right up against the brick wall, his hands pinning my wrists on each side.

"Messing with me is dangerous, Babe. It's dangerous for you, and it's dangerous for me," he warned.

"You live for danger," I pointed out. "You love it."

His lips brushed mine as he nodded agreement. "You _are _dangerous," he whispered, kissing me. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would leap out of my chest.

"Mmmm," I started to answer, but he deepened the kiss. My head was swimming. Was he angry or turned on? Or both? A minute more, and I wasn't going to care.

When he finally ended the kiss, he looked me in the eye as he spoke. "I don't need my enemies thinking I've gone soft. Word gets around, especially in the Berg."

Didn't I know it. And everyone knows who drives the expensive, shiny black cars, I thought.

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it this time. "I didn't think."

"Next time, just tell me what you need, and I'll take care of it," he said, releasing me. It sounded strangely like a promise.

I knew I should have felt relief. My rent would get paid. I would always have a car when I needed one. I wasn't going to starve. But inwardly, I groaned. That's the problem, I thought. Part of me wanted to be cared for and taken care of, but part of me wanted to be independent. Maybe I even felt like I didn't deserve to have Ranger taking care of things for me. I felt a little bit competitive with Ranger. I wanted to prove myself to him, but how could I do that if he was paying my rent because I wasn't up to taking down the big skips? Sure, I'd brought down some seriously bad guys, but most of the time the windfall didn't last long. To keep up with my debts and get ahead, let alone move to a nice place and have a new car every two years, I'd have to be chasing high bond skips on a regular basis. Ranger was so far ahead of me, I couldn't even dream of catching up. I sighed.

"Come on," he said, throwing his arm around my shoulders and pulling me back from the shadows towards the office.

When we walked in, Lula and Connie stopped talking. Connie dropped her nail file and busied herself with a stack of skip folders.

"Ranger. I'm glad you stopped by. I've got a file for you," Connie said, clearly flustered.

Ranger walked over to her desk and held out his hand for the file. He opened it, and let me have a glance. The FTA was "Rah Rah" Robbie Robinson, 26, wanted for dealing heroin, known to frequent a seedy area down by the river known locally as Dead Man's Wharf. It wasn't unusual to find bodies floating face down on the water front when the sun came up.

"Wanna help me with this one?" Ranger asked.

Despite my momentary bravado, I was glad to pass up that kind of trouble. I shook my head. "No, he's all yours," I told him, reaching out for the file Connie was handing me.

My FTA was Gordon Graham, aka "Golden Graham". Graham was charged with committing a daylight robbery with a BB gun. He made off with $25 and a pitcher of ice cold lemonade from two little girls with a stand on the street corner. I rolled my eyes, and Ranger broke into a full smile, trying not to laugh. Graham was being charged with malicious mischief and could expect probation. Should be an easy capture.

The door opened, and I could see from the look on Connie's face that it was Morelli.

"What's up?" Connie asked nervously.

"Oh, just saw Ranger's new ride outside and thought I'd drop in," he said, his voice just a tad too jovial.

I felt my blood run cold. He'd heard about my touring the Berg in Ranger's new Panamera.

Ranger cut his eyes from me to Morelli.

"What'd that beauty set you back?" Morelli asked.

Ranger didn't answer. There was some unspoken communication between the two. I wasn't sure about the details, but it looked like they were sizing each other up.

"Business must be REALLY good," Joe said, shaking his head. "I had no idea installing security alarms was so lucrative." His tone was mildly threatening.

Joe had always had doubts about Ranger, and we all knew it, but would he really go snooping to verify his suspicions this time?

Ranger was unfazed. He appeared to be slightly amused by Morelli's thinly veiled allegation.

"I hear that's the kind of car women really go for," Joe continued, rocking back on his heels to glance back at it out the window. "I'll bet you could get three women in a car like that, easy...they might even pay for the privilege." He was really pressing it now.

"They might," Ranger said. The corner of his mouth twitched.

Morelli took a menacing step towards Ranger. Ranger pushed me back behind him.

"Funny, from what I hear, it seats four. Four women were seen in that car earlier today." Morelli cut his eyes to me.

"Then what are you so worried about, Morelli?" Ranger asked, his tone low and measured.

"Nothing," he growled. It sounded like a challenge.

"Good," Ranger responded, his voice low, clearly taking up the challenge. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he turned to the door. "Later, Babe," he said to me, his eyes still on Morelli.

Joe stood stock still, watching Ranger as he walked out the door. His eyes grew darker as he watched Ranger walk down the street. I was surprised when he slid behind the wheel of the Cayenne and took off, leaving the Panamera behind. I looked at Joe and Joe looked at me, his suspicion growing by the second. He reached out and grabbed my bag, pulling out the key to the Panamera. He let it drop back into my bag and threw the bag back at me.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he spat, stomping out the door. He tore out down the street. Horns honked as he cleared the intersection with his Kojak light on the roof.

"I hope you know what you're doing," I mumbled.

"Oh, boy," Connie sighed.

For once, Lula was speechless.


	3. The Rescuers

My alarm went off at 9 am. I crawled out of bed and into the shower. A bowl of Cheerios and a cup of coffee later, I was ready to go. That is, I was, until I got to the parking lot. Then all the events of the previous day came flooding back as I stared at the Panamera.

Ranger had really set me up this time, I thought. First, he stole my car. Then he left me holding the bag with Morelli. And to top it all off, _he_ was threatening to get even with _me_? I grit my teeth and considered going back upstairs. I wanted to crawl under the covers and forget about everything, but before I could make up my mind, my phone rang. It was Connie.

"You on your way?" she asked.

"Why? What is it now?" I groaned.

"Lula's going on a donut run. You in?"

"Yeah," I signed, fishing the key to the Panamera out of my purse.

"The usual?"

"Yeah," I groaned, checking for any sign of a gap between my waist band and my waist. There wasn't much of one.

"Half dozen Boston Creams," Connie yelled to Lula.

"I'll be there in ten," I said, disconnecting.

Twenty minutes later, I swung though the door of the bonds office. The box from Tasty Pastry was sitting open on Connie's desk.

"Help yourself," she said, shoving the box in my direction.

I snagged a donut and poured myself a cup of coffee.

"So, we goin' after that easy money today?" Lula wanted to know.

I blew out a sigh.

"At least you won't have to worry about Ranger today," Connie said.

I choked on a big bite. "Why's that?" I mumbled, before washing down the lump in my throat with the coffee.

"He's officially off-line, in the wind, looking for Rah Rah. A job like this usually takes a few days, even for Ranger."

"But that doesn't mean we won't have a Rangeman tail," Lula said, sounding strangely hopeful.

"What's up with you?" Connie wanted to know.

"Well, I've been thinking. Probably I just came on too strong with Tank. I was reading this article in Essence magazine about how you gotta play hard to get with a man like Tank. Let him be the man, let him make the first move, you know what I'm saying?"

"And the second and third moves, too," Connie said, under her breath.

"Yeah, well, I never got any practice with that, what with being a ho and all," Lula said.

"Guess not," Connie said, wearily shaking her head.

"So, I'm just gonna ignore him. Let him come to me."

"Good luck with that." Connie laughed.

I helped my self to another donut and pulled Graham's file out of my bag.

"So, where do you want to start looking for this guy?" Lula asked, packing at least three napkin wrapped donuts into her purse.

"He's unemployed, living in an apartment on Weaver Street," I read out loud. "Looks like he's got a roommate." I looked at Connie. "His roommate is listed as 'Funky Winkerbean'?"

"Say what?" Lula spun around. "Golden Graham and Funky Winkerbean?"

"Who made up these names?" I asked, tossing the file back into my bag.

"Don't blame me. I just type what I'm told," Connie said, throwing up her hands.

"Let's get this over with," I groaned, heading for the door.

"Have a nice day!" Connie called after us.

"I love this car," Lula gushed as we climbed into Ranger's Space Shuttle. "I just can't get enough," she said, whipping out her cell phone. I stared at her for a beat as she started snapping pictures of herself sitting in leather wrapped luxury. I had to look away when she started making kissy faces at herself in the vanity mirror.

I put the key in the slot and turned it gently until the car started. I pulled away from the curb, and both Lula and I glanced back, expecting to see a shiny, black Rangeman vehicle following at a discreet distance. Nothing.

Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of a large, rather run-down collection of row houses that were obviously rental property. The cereal killer we were after lived on the first floor, thank God. I hated dragging F.T.A.'s down a flight of stairs.

I parked, and we got out. It was only ten in the morning, but the heat of the day was fast approaching. The humid air hit me like a wave, frizzing my ponytail upon contact.

"Let's make this quick," I said, trudging across the crispy front lawn and up the concrete steps to the dark blue door that stood in stark contrast to the white washed face of the house.

I rapped on the door three times, trying to sound friendly and non-threatening. I saw the curtain move and felt eyes on us. I knocked again, and the curtain fell back into place. Moments later, a boy-man answered the door. That is, he was old enough to be considered a man, but he looked strangely like a large boy who had just run away from home. He was barefoot, wearing Sponge Bob pajamas, had bed head and a ten o'clock shadow on his chin. He was wearing round, wire rimmed glasses of the Harry Potter variety, and had a studious look about him. No sense of humor was suggested in those dull brown eyes.

"Gordon Graham?" I asked doubtfully. As dorky as this guy looked, he didn't seem quite a special ed as the photo in the file.

"No. Gordon's not here," he said.

"Does Gordon live here?" I asked.

"Yeah, but he's out right now."

"When do you expect him back?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Whenever."

"Are you Funky Winkerbean?" Lula asked.

The young man grimaced. "No! I'm Frank Winkerman," he nearly shouted. Lula had obviously hit a nerve.

"What's your problem? I loved Funky Winkerbean. He was cool for a geek."

Frank was giving Lula the death glare now. I looked over at her, eyes wide, trying to send a telepathic warning, but it was no use.

"I learned to read from the Sunday comics," she went on, reminiscing. "Every Sunday morning, I would sneak out and steal the news paper, so I could have my own copy when I watched Uncle Bill Reads the Funnies. You remember that show?"

Frank shook his head no.

"Well, I guess you're too young. Uncle Bill would read the comics pages on TV, right from his kitchen. And that's how I learned to read."

"Yeah, right," he said in disbelief.

"How the heck do you think I learned to read? You think my crack ho mamma was reading me Jack and Jill?" Lula paused. "Okay, maybe she did read me some lame ass story about Jack and Jill, but at the time I didn't think she was telling the truth about what they were doing up there on the hill, if you know what I mean." Lula looked the man-boy up and down. "Well, I guess you probably don't know what I mean."

At this point, Frank's scowl turned a little fearful. He looked Lula up and down now, taking in the poison green spandex leggings, hot pink skirt, and black tank top revealing an acre of cleavage. Today she was wearing large gold hoop earrings, and a gold necklace that said HOT MAMA. Her hair was a mushroom of natural black frizz erupting from a leopard print headband that hovered an inch above her scalp like a misplaced halo.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I'm a bond enforcement agent. Gordon missed his court date, and I'm here to help him re-schedule," I explained.

"Yeah, right," he said, giving me an appraising look now.

"My dad always took the Sunday paper into the bathroom, so I never got to read the comics," I said with a shrug.

"Uh, huh," he said, stepping back slowly across the threshold, preparing to shut the door on us.

"Hey, it's getting hot out here," Lula complained. "You wouldn't mind if we came in to wait for him, would you?"

"Yes," he said, closing the door and locking it behind him.

"That was rude," Lula complained loudly, crossing her arms, her eyes boring holes in the door where Frank was probably still standing, listening for us to leave. "I think he's hiding something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. He seem nervous to you?"

"No." I trudged back across the lawn stubble to the car. I beeped it open and climbed in, eager to feel the cool air flowing from the vents.

Lula slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. "Why do you suppose he didn't want to let us in?"

Hmmm, I thought. Let's see. First you insulted him. Then you assumed he was a virgin, which he undoubtedly is, but he's sensitive about it. Not to mention, his mother might show up any moment. She'd probably cut off his allowance if she found her little boy keeping company with a thirty-something ho and his roommate's bounty hunter.

"No idea," I sighed, pulling out into traffic.

"What now? Lunch?"

"It's just after ten, and we just had donuts," I reminded her.

"Oh yeah," she said, digging around in her purse and taking a bite out of another jelly donut.

I rolled my eyes.

"So, where are we going?"

"I need to find my car," I said.

"No you don't. Are you crazy? Girl, you got the finest car in Trenton. What you want to go hunt down that P.O.S. car for? Anyway, Ranger probably had it towed to a chop shop." She paused, taking another bite. "Scratch that. No self-respecting chop shop would waste time on that hunk of junk."

"Well, I can't keep driving this thing," I said.

"Why the hell not?" Lula argued. "Don't you feel fine when you're behind the wheel of a real love machine like this?"

I had to admit, it did have a sexy purr. And it smelled like new car and leather...and Ranger.

"Morelli is going to have my head on a platter if I keep driving this car," I reminded her.

"Face it. Detective Hottie is not taking care of your needs," Lula said, taking another big bite of donut. Purple-pink blobs of jelly were sticking to the corners of her mouth. "He doesn't provide you with reliable transportation. He left you out there in the heat, to fend for yourself. He didn't even come to back you up when Ranger called him."

Now she had my attention. "What?"

"Ooops," she said, sucking in a blob of jelly that was trying to escape from the last bite of her donut.

"What, oops?" I pulled over, screeching to a stop. "How do you know who Ranger called?" I had assumed it was Eddie Gazarra, since he met me at the back door of the station, and Ranger had said the cops were short-handed due to the heat.

"What?" Lula asked, playing dumb.

"You said Ranger called Morelli. Who told you that? Tank?"

Lula was busying herself unwrapping another donut, ignoring me.

"I thought you were playing hard to get?" I reminded her.

"I'm not _that_ hard to get," Lula shrugged guiltily.

"Lula!"

"What? Yes, okay, fine. It was Tank. But you didn't hear it from me." She took another large bite of donut, this one was Blueberry Bliss.

I stared dumbfounded out the front window. Ranger called Morelli to come help me with a skip, and Morelli refused. Surely he had a good reason. In Trenton, the homicide rate usually rose in direct proportion to the thermometer. Morelli must have been at a crime scene, so he called Gazarra. Gazarra would have come looking for me if I hadn't shown up. Ranger would have helped me, but he had to take off to bring in a high-bond skip. And besides, I was fine, mostly. Besides, Ranger came back for me...and to tow my car away and set me up. I blew out a sigh. Ranger got me out of the heat. That was all he really intended at the time, I decided. But he did enjoy pissing off Morelli, who had presumably also come looking for me. I wondered. Had Morelli been checking on my well-being, or did he only come looking for me after he heard through the Trenton PD grapevine that his woman had been spotted driving around the Berg in Ranger's hot new ride?

The AC was on max, but my blood was boiling. Men!

Just then, my phone rang, and I yanked it out of my purse.

"What?" I demanded, answering my cell.

"Stephanie Plum!" my mother started with a shock. "Is that any way to answer your phone?"

I blew out a sigh. "I'm not having a good day, Mom."

"That's no excuse."

"I'm sorry," I groaned.

"I just called to see if you and Joseph wanted to come to dinner tonight. We're having marinated chicken and chocolate cake with coconut sprinkles," she said, trying to tempt me.

"Set the table for two," I said. "Gotta run."

"See you tonight," she said happily, disconnecting.

"I heard that," Lula said. "You think taking Officer Hottie home with you is going to help this situation?"

"No. I just didn't want to argue with her right now. Besides, I didn't promise to bring Joe."

Lula raised her eyebrows at me.

"I just told her to set two places."

"Well, I know you ain't asking Batman."

I rolled my eyes at her. "I was planning on bringing you. Don't you like marinated chicken and chocolate cake with coconut sprinkles?" I asked, trying to tempt Lula as effectively as my mother would.

"Well, that's different," she said, grinning. "You know I love your Mom's cooking. And I haven't seen your granny in a while. She's a hoot."

"She's something," I agreed.

"We got some time to kill until six. What's next?"

I shrugged and dialed Connie. "Graham wasn't home. We'll try back later. You got anything else for us?"

"No, and there's no point coming back to the office either. The electricity is out. I'm locking up and going home. Vinnie doesn't pay me enough to roast in this hell hole."

With every air conditioner in Trenton turned to high, the grid was overloaded and rolling blackouts were to be expected.

"I'm heading home too, then," I told her. "I want to check on Rex." I was suddenly worried that he might be trapped in a small glass cage in a stiflingly hot apartment. At least I could open a window, I thought, or take him down to the basement. Dillon, the building super, might be willing to keep him for a few days.

We disconnected, and I pulled a U-turn, heading towards my apartment. I was careful to park where Ranger's paint job wasn't likely to be dinged, right between Mr. Dewey who appreciated nice cars, as evidenced by his brand new Mustang, and Mr. and Mrs. Johansen, the newlyweds from North Dakota who were sickening sweet to everyone. They would have been okay if it weren't for the polka music.

"You know, I would have thought that was a nice car the other day," Lula said, eyeing the deep blue glossy finish of Mr. Dewey's new baby. "But, this here top-of-the-line Porsche has raised my standards, you know what I'm saying?"

I nodded, and beeped the alarm on the Panamera. I stood beside Lula, doing a side-by-side comparison of the two cars. Let's face it. There was no comparison. It was Wal-Mart vs. Saks Fifth Avenue. It was Trenton's summer smog vs Paris in the spring or the rolling hills of the Italian countryside. The Panamera seemed to be saying, "If you have to ask, you can't afford me."

I blew out a sigh. "Let's go check on Rex."

We crossed the parking lot and swung through the lobby doors. I noticed that the lights were on and breathed a sigh of relief. I pushed the button for the elevator.

"You aren't really going looking for your old car, are you?" Lula asked.

"It's my car," I whined. "Ranger had no right to take it without asking. I mean, he basically stole my car," I complained.

"That's not the only car," Lula speculated under her breath.

"He didn't steal the Panamera," I huffed.

"How the hell else would he get a car like that?" she asked.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. We got in, and I punched the button for the second floor.

"Besides, I don't think what Ranger did with your car could be considered stealing. In my neighborhood, we call it taking out the trash," Lula snorted. "A man takes out the trash, and provides you with the hottest ride ever made, you marry him. You don't complain and go to the dump looking for the bag of trash."

I was about to respond, when we were suddenly plunged into darkness.

"Oh, Lord!" Lula gasped.

"This is not good," I whispered.

"What just happened?" Lula asked.

"Rolling blackout," I guessed.

"How long until it rolls along?" Lula sounded distressed.

"Probably an hour or more," I said.

I could hear Lula gripping the railing attached to the wall of the elevator, causing the cables to groan under the shifting weight. "I can't be trapped in no elevator," she sobbed. "I've got the claustrophobia. I can't be in confined places." I heard the sheer rustle of her clothing as she tried to loosen the spandex that was already stretched to bursting. "We gotta get out of here," she insisted.

"Great," I said testily. "How do you propose we do that?"

"There's probably an escape hatch up top. You can just climb up there, shimmy up the ropes, and get help," she suggested.

"Oh, sure." I rolled my eyes. "What in our history together makes you think I'm capable of climbing up steel cables and wrenching the elevator doors open? And what if the electricity comes back on and I get crushed?

"You said you had an hour or more," Lula said.

"Maybe, if this is actually a planned rolling black out. But what if it's just a blown fuse?"

"Yeah, I hadn't thought of that," Lula admitted.

"I'm not going out there," I said with finality. "We're just going to have to wait it out."

Ten minutes later, the air was so humid and stale, I was pulling my sneakers off, ready to climb up on Lula's back and feel around for the trap door.

"Ow!" Lula complained. "Watch those boney feet, white girl!"

I tried to keep my weight on the balls of my feet, but Lula kept grunting and complaining. I tried to ignore her, focusing on finding the trap door.

"Higher," I said.

Lula grunted and tried to raise her rump. "Feel anything?"

"No." I pulled out my cell phone and used the light to look around. Nothing. "There's no trap door," I said, hopping down. "Now what?"

"HELP!" Lula bellowed, banging her fists on the elevator doors. "Someone out there? We're trapped in here! Help!"

Everyone on the first and second floor was geriatric. The younger couples were always assigned to the third floor apartments. There was no chance we would be heard. Even those who could hear wouldn't be able to distinguish our cries over the of the battery operated emergency radios now blaring from every apartment, tuned in unison to the oldies station. Seniors were always prepared for emergencies, and they lived for a little excitement. We were between floors, and even within the confines of the elevator, we could hear every word the news anchor was saying. "Rolling blackouts are expected to continue for the next few days. Keep plenty of bottled water handy, and non-perishable food items..."

"Water!" Lula gasped. "I'm so thirsty."

"You were fine a minute ago," I told her. "You're just thinking about it now that they mentioned it on the news."

"Whatever. I'm parched. We could die in here, all caged up."

I felt a pang in my heart as I thought of Rex, but probably there was still some cool air in the closed apartment, and he had a bottle of water. Even my hamster was better prepared for this weather than I was.

Lula lay down on the floor of the elevator. "I think I'm going to pass out," she whined.

I tried to access the internet on my new phone, but the signal was down due to the power outage. Dillon was the building super, but I didn't have his number in my phone, so I couldn't call him for help. I thought about calling my parents. Dad might know what to do, but then again, if he wasn't home and I got Mom, she would be worried sick, and this wasn't really a life and death drama, despite Lula's performance.

"There's no phone service," Lula said. "I already tried."

I dialed the Trenton PD, and got a recording that the cellular network was busy.

I sat down on the floor next to Lula.

"How long has it been?" she asked, breathing heavily.

"Fifteen minutes," I answered.

"We're not going to make it," she whispered, crying softly. "I want you to know, you've been a good friend to me all these years."

"Stop that," I said, smacking her leg. "We're not dying. This is just an annoying inconvenience."

An hour later, I was lying flat on my back next to Lula.

"You've been a good friend to me too," I whispered. "I know I don't appreciate you enough, and I'm sorry."

"Oh, Lord," Lula gushed. "We really are going to die."

I was soaked with sweat again, my mouth was dry, and the air was so dense, it felt crushing in the blackness. My cell phone battery was dead from checking the time. There was nothing left to do, but wait. I slid my purse under my head, to use as a pillow, but it was too lumpy. I sat up and dumped out the contents, and started picking through it by feel, mostly to have something to do.

"Mint?" I asked Lula. She took one, and we both sucked on the fresh odor, although it just stuck to my tongue because I didn't have any spit to dissolve it with.

I felt my wallet and check book, tossing those back into the bag. A pen. A lighter. I don't smoke, but you never know when you might need to light a fuse or see in the dark. In this case, however, I figured an open flame would only increase the heat, so I tossed it into my bag. A used Kleenex. I tossed it towards the trash can in the corner. My old car keys. The key to the Panamera.

I froze. Rangeman. What if we did have a tail. They could be down in the parking lot right now, expecting that I was safe in my apartment, never guessing I was in trouble. Even if we didn't have a tail, the car was monitored by Rangeman, and they would come on the double to investigate the alarm. I fished out the lighter and lit up the key fob, looking for the alarm button. I pressed my ear to the slit in the elevator door, and pressed the button. I doubted the signal could possibly transmit far enough to reach the car, but it was worth a try. After all, we weren't talking Radio Shack...this was the Space Shuttle. In fact, the Porsche was even better because this model was _not_ put together by the lowest bidder.

"What's that?" Lula gasped, holding her breath to listen as the distinct sound of an alarm siren blared loudly outside in the parking lot.

"That is the sound of our rescue," I sighed.

"And you're just thinking of that now?" she bellowed. "Seriously?"

"You didn't think of it either," I reminded her.

"Yeah, well, it's not my car, is it?"

I counted to ten, reminding myself that help was on the way if I could just hold on.

Before I could count to 100, we could hear the sounds of heavy feet pounding up the stairwell.

"In here," Lula screamed, pounding on the doors. "HELP!"

But the footsteps continued up the stairwell to the second floor. I grit my teeth, knowing what I was going to hear next. Sure enough, there was a crashing sound as a boot broke through my door jam, and a pair of heavily armed men stormed my apartment like SWAT.

"You shouldn't have to pay for that," Lula said. "They didn't even knock."

Like I would have wanted them to, I thought, rolling my eyes. If this had been a real emergency, I would have been relieved to have Rangeman burst into my apartment. Now, all they were doing was letting the cool air out.

"Stephanie!" they were calling out. "Lula?"

"Yo! Rangeman! We're in here! The elevator is stuck. HELP!" Lula called out, banging on the elevator doors. "In here!"

"Yeah, we hear you," a deep booming voice finally answered. "Anyone else in there?"

"This here's Lula, and Stephanie is in here with me," she called back.

"You been in there all this time?" he asked.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" she snapped back.

"Don't antagonize the rescue party," I hissed at her.

"Oh, yeah," she whispered back. "Guess I should be polite to our rescuers, even if they are over an hour late.

I pressed my forehead to against the back wall, thanking God that this was going to be over soon. Then, touching my hair, I realized that I was again a frizzy fright. I was dripping wet, my makeup was running, and I smelled like a gym bag, except for my minty fresh breath. I grabbed my purse and fished out the mints, sticking one under each armpit, wiping my eyes off on my shirt collar, and hoping for the best.

"We're going to get some tools to pry the doors apart," the booming voice called out.

We heard boots on the stairs again, and then silence.

"Did they just leave us here?" Lula asked in disbelief.

"It's not like we're going anywhere," I pointed out, wishing I had a brush in my purse, but knowing it wouldn't do any good. I felt around for my shoes and socks and started putting them back on, feeling my temperature rising with the added clothing.

Ten agonizing minutes later, we heard boots on the stairs again. We scooted to sit with our backs against the far wall, out of the way. We heard doors being pried open, and we saw a sliver of light appear around the slit in the door.

"What do you think?" a second voice asked with a Hispanic accent.

"We're going to have to get them out on one," Tank's voice answered.

"That's Tank!" Lula whispered. Now she was the one digging in her purse. I could hear her applying lipstick and squirting herself with cologne. Like that was going to help.

We heard boots on the stairs again, and more grunting and mechanical sounds as a brighter light appeared at our feet.

"Get back from the doors," Tank's voice called out.

"Go for it!" I yelled back, my voice hoarse and dry.

A long slender pry bar was forced between the doors and suddenly light flooded the space around us.

"Finally!" Lula gasped, crawling towards the door.

"Stop!" The order was issued with unmistakable authority. Ranger.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The power could come on anytime. We've got Dillon pulling the breakers on the building. Until we have confirmation, it isn't safe to pull you out."

"I'll be quick," Lula promised, scooting to the two foot opening in the door. "I've got to get out!" Lula cried, in a state.

I grabbed her ankles and dragged her back, but she kicked out at me, clawing and struggling towards the light.

"You want to be cut in half?" Ranger barked at her.

Lula stopped struggling, looking up and seeing Ranger and Tank glaring in at her.

"Back up," Tank's voice boomed inside the elevator shaft. Lula and I both scooted back to the far side of the elevator again. Tank tossed four cold water bottles onto the floor in front of us, and we tore into them.

After I wet my whistle, I looked up at Ranger. "I thought you were on assignment, off-line," I said.

"I was," he said. "You're more important."

Ranger stepped back, allowing Tank to fan us with a large palm frond he had ripped from a fake potted tree nearby. Even that slight movement of stale air was a treat at that moment.

"Thank you, Tank," Lula sighed. I looked over at her. I couldn't remember ever hearing Lula say "thank you" for anything. She must have got that from reading that magazine, I guessed. Maybe that advice was working. Tank smiled sheepishly at her, and she smiled back.

Moments later, there was again the sound of movement in the stairwell. "Okay!" Dillon called out as he burst through the door. "The main breaker is off."

Lula didn't need to be told twice. She was on her belly, crawling head first through the narrow opening. I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, knowing what was coming next.

"Help! I'm stuck!" she squealed. "Tank! Get me out of here!"

I could hear Tank straining, his enormous black hands wrapped securely around Lula's shoulders.

"Ow!" Lula complained. "You're hurting me!"

"You want out, or what?" Tank asked.

"Can't you get me out of here without bruising me, you big..." Lula floundered. She took a deep breath. "You big hunk of man, you?" she finished. I didn't think this was quite the time to be batting her eyelashes at Tank, but what do I know?

"Lula, exhale completely and stiffen your frame. Stephanie, you push," Ranger told me, taking one of Lula's arms as Tank grabbed the other.

I put my feet on Lula's feet, pressed my back into the wall, and pushed as hard as I could. There was a whoosh of expelled air from Lula, from both ends, and the sound of ripping fabric, as my feet slid all the way out in front of me, and Lula landed on her feet, supported by Tank and Ranger. Dillon stood open mouthed, gaping at a stark naked Lula. Her tank top was in tatters, and her green leggings and pink skirt were now wrapped around my ankles, having found found the bristles of the elevator carpet to be easier to cling to than Lula's sweaty skin.

"Whoo! That feels a lot better!" Lula hollered, head back, enjoying the breeze.

Dillon fell face first onto the carpet in a dead faint.

Tank pulled his shirt off and dropped it over Lula's head. Before he knew what was happening, Lula jumped into his arms, surprising him. He stumbled back and nearly dropped her as she laid a big, sloppy kiss on him. "My hero!" she exclaimed.

Ranger turned to look at me, trying to keep his expression blank, but not quite succeeding.

"Lula's playing hard to get," I explained, as I handed him her tightly rolled clothing. Ranger tossed it to the floor, reaching in for me. I felt his hands grip me firmly under the arms, and slide me out. I landed on my feet.

"My hero," I said, teasing him. He was about to pull me in for a kiss, when a strange expression passed over his face. He pulled back slightly, removing his hands from me and looking down at them. There was a round green mint stuck to each of his palms. He looked questioningly at me.

"What? I needed to freshen up?"

Ranger flicked the mints away, tossed Lula's clothes to Tank, and slung my bag over my arm, ready to escort me out of the building.

"Rex!" I said, pointing towards the stairwell. "I came to check on Rex."

"He's outside in the Cayenne with the motor running," he assured me.

Tank was helping Dillon to his feet. "You got this?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dillon said, nodding. "Broken door, turn the breakers back on, plugged toilet on three," he mumbled.

"Thanks," I said to Dillon. "I owe you a beer."

"Okay," he said, his face still bright red as he headed towards the stairwell, presumably to assess the damage to my door.

Ranger guided me towards the stairwell, and out to the parking lot. One of his Rangemen handed him a fancy, brown paper shopping bag and small suitcase, my suitcase. "Where are you staying?" Ranger asked, leading me to the Panamera.

"I don't know," I said, at a loss. "You packed for me?"

"This," he said, indicating the brown bag, "is from your car, and this," he said, indicating the suitcase, "is from your apartment. Clothing and toiletries." He tossed both bags onto the back seat of the Cayenne next to Rex.

"So, where exactly is my car?" I wanted to know.

"Car heaven," he said, dismissively. "Let it go." He wasn't going to tell me.

Lula and Tank took off in Tank's SUV. I expected he was taking Lula home, or back to the bond's office to pick up her Firebird.

"Rangeman will secure your apartment." I had no doubt about that.

"Then why can't I stay here?" I asked.

"Because I don't want any of my men spending that much time with you," he answered.

"You jealous?" I asked, surprised.

"I'm worried they'll end up in the hospital."

"You going back to your assignment?" I asked.

"I should," he said, sounding a little disappointed.

"But?"

Ranger shrugged. "This is more fun."

"You have a strange idea of a good time," I told him.

Ranger almost smiled. "You're a mess," he said, pushing a stray strand of wet hair back from my face.

"You want to take me home and...hose me down?" I asked. Holy cow, where had that come from?

Ranger grinned. "More than I can say, but I don't think it would be a good idea."

"Why not?" I wanted to know.

"Morelli," he answered.

I looked around, expecting to see Morelli in the lot, but we were alone.

"You're not afraid of Morelli, are you?" I asked. I knew I was baiting him, but I couldn't seem to help myself.

Ranger closed the distance between us. "No. But this heat makes people crazy, Babe." He brushed my lips with his. "I want you to be safe." He kissed me gently. "You want to stay at my apartment?"

I really did, but I knew how it would end. Either Ranger would blow my mind, then go back to work like nothing had happened, or I would stay there alone, wondering what was wrong with us. I grit my teeth.

"Won't my door be fixed by tonight?" I asked.

"Yes," Ranger nodded slowly. "I'll have Hector call you when he's done."

I gave him a measured stare. "You really thought I would come stay at your apartment, didn't you?"

He stared back at me, giving nothing away. "I didn't plan this, Babe."

"I think I should spend a few hours at my parent's house," I told him. "I can clean up there. I promised my mother I'd be there for dinner, anyway."

He moved Rex and the bags from the Cayenne to the back seat of the Panamera.

"Thank you, again, for coming to my rescue," I said, still sounding flirty as he again closed the distance between us.

Ranger's face was blank as he opened my car door and slid me inside. He squatted down beside me. "I'm going to be gone a few days. Maybe when I get back, we can talk," he said. I took this to mean he wanted to have a very serious talk.

"Oh," I said, surprised. "Well..." I wasn't good with having those kinds of talks. And Ranger had always been a man of few or no words when it came to expressing his feelings.

"Unless there's nothing to talk about," he said.

This sounded like a question. Was there anything to talk about?

Ranger reached in and turned the key, starting the engine of the Panamera, allowing the cool air to rush over me. I closed my eyes, trying to remember to breathe. This was what Ranger always did to me. He would offer me expensive wine. He would bribe me with classy cars. He would buy me clothes and jewelry. He would wrap me in luxury. But somehow, that wasn't enough for me. What did it really mean, anyway? Was this just a game to him? He once said that giving me cars was fun, and that they kept me safe. And keeping me safe was important to him, because he loved me.

I turned to Ranger, looking deep into his eyes.

I could hear Lula and Connie's voices echoing in my head. "A car like that...that's true love." I looked around me at the expensive interior of Ranger's latest display of affection. He certainly had upped the ante, and he had openly challenged Morelli. What would he do if he won this bet? Would the attention stop once the pressure was off? Was I really guilty of stringing Ranger along? Was I playing hard to get? Whoa. That just didn't seem possible.

"Babe?" He was still waiting for an answer.

"We could talk," I whispered.

"Good," he said, a finger brushing my lips. "Be careful," he said, pulling back and closing my door. I watched him round the Cayenne. He glanced my way longingly for a moment, our eyes held, and I felt my heart fluttering in my chest. Oh my God, I really was in love with Ranger.

He pulled away, turned the corner and was gone. I followed, expecting to be on his tail once I rounded my apartment building, but as usual, he had vanished without a trace.


	4. Dinner and a Show

Grandma Mazur woke me at a quarter to six. I had taken a nap while Mom had washed, fluffed, folded, and probably ironed the clothes I had been wearing as well as the clothes Ranger had packed for me. Who was I to argue. The clothes were now neatly tucked into my old dresser drawers, as if I had suddenly decided to move home. I almost felt guilty packing them back into the bag and dragging it down the stairs to the front door…almost.

Lula was downstairs waiting at the dining room table.

"Hey, Girlfriend!" Lula sang out.

"Hey, Lula," I said, dragging my butt to my usual chair and sliding into it, my entire body aching. I had been dangerously dehydrated two days in a row, and I felt wrung out. But Lula was positively glowing. "Have a good afternoon with Tank?" I asked.

"Don't you know it? Tank took me to this place downtown where they serve high-end protein shakes and things for body builders. You know, my Tank is a big man because he knows how to take care of his body. He don't mess around, you know what I'm saying?"

I nodded.

"He had them bring me three or four different kinds of drinks. One was a re-hydrator. It had Aloe Vera in it, like you use on burns. And then some kind of energy drink with ketones. And a metabolism booster, and then we knocked back a shot of something he called a Green Tea Remedy. Girl, I'm feeling like I could run the Boston Marathon, right now. Whoo!"

Lula was practically vibrating with energy. It didn't seem natural. I was a little worried what might happen to her once the effects wore off.

"Wish you had brought me one," I said.

"I should have," she apologized. "I didn't think of it. But you had a nap. I didn't. So, you 'ought to be good."

I groaned in response.

Before I could argue with her, Dad came barreling through the front door. I must have had a surprised look on my face as he plopped down in his seat at the end of the table. He wasn't sauntering in from his chair in the living room, where he was usually found in front of the TV until dinner was on the table. He was at least five minutes early. Not only that, he seemed to be vibrating with energy, just like Lula, but presumably for entire different reasons.

"Are you okay?" I asked him.

"Yeah, fine. Why?" he asked, unfolding his napkin. "Where's dinner."

As if on cue, my mother swung through the kitchen door with a meat platter in hand.

"Where's Joseph?" she asked, surprised to see me sitting with Lula.

"He's working," I answered. It was probably true.

Grandma was hot on her heels with potatoes and gravy. Minutes later, we were all filling our plates and shoveling in the grub.

"So, I see you got a new car," my dad said, trying to sound casual.

I glanced over at him. "Not mine. Just borrowing it."

"She got the car from Ranger," Grandma chimed in. "That man is so hot! But that car is even hotter."

"I noticed that car out front," my mother said. "It's not the same one you had last time."

"No, it's not," Dad said, as if that was a gross understatement.

"Stephanie took me and the ladies at Clara's for a ride yesterday," Grandma announced. "She's a beauty. Purrs like a sleepy kitten, but I'll bet when you put the pedal to the metal it'll do 200...or 250? Am I right?"

"Goodness!" my mother said, putting her hand to her chest. "Don't tell me you've been racing that thing!"

"No, Mom. We just drove a circle around the Burg. I obeyed all the street signs," I promised.

"I can't imagine what Ranger is thinking, giving you a car like that," she said, pouring herself another glass of wine.

"I can," Dad growled, but he shoved a fork full of chicken into his mouth before he was tempted to say what was really on his mind.

"It's true love," Lula said.

"Oh, deal Lord!" Mom said, holding her head in her hands.

"It's just a loaner," I assured her. "It's just a car."

"What about Joseph?" she asked.

"What about him?"

"Does he know you're driving that car?"

"Yes."

"And he's okay with it?"

"Mom, it's just a car."

"What happened to your car?"

I closed my eyes, wishing I had a remote control that would let me fast forward to the end of this conversation. I took a deep breath before answering.

"It was towed." That much was true.

"Towed?" She mulled this over as she tossed back the last of the wine in her glass.

"Your mother told me you're staying the night," Dad said. This was an uncharacteristic number of words for my father. I looked at him for a beat. It was almost as if he were participating in the conversation, rather than merely commenting on it.

"No. The door to my apartment is being replaced. I just dropped in for a shower and a change of clothes."

"And a nap," Lula added.

"What happened to your door?" Mom asked, concerned again.

"There was a misunderstanding, and my door got kicked in by mistake," I explained.

Mom poured herself a third glass.

"That's a shame," Dad said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "It would be nice to have you stay over."

"Is it safe for you to go home?" Mom asked, concerned. "Who was after you this time?"

"No one," I assured her.

"Was it another murderer?" Grandma wanted to know. "You haven't had a murderer break into your apartment for a few weeks now."

"Dear, God!" my mother gasped, crossing herself.

"Nah, it was just Rangeman. We hit the car alarm because we were stuck in the elevator, and they came running up to Stephanie's apartment and rushed the place."

My mother's eyes were wide.

"Darn! I miss all the good stuff!" Grandma said.

"You were stuck in the elevator, during the blackout?" Mom asked, turning back to me.

"Just for a little while. We're fine."

"We were in there for an hour and a half at least," Lula huffed. "But Tank and Ranger rescued us. I just knew were going to die earlier today, but I'm feeling fine now, thanks for asking."

My mother looked over at Lula and then back at me.

"We weren't going to die," I said. "It was just really stuffy in there."

"I'll bet you wanted to die," Grandma said. "I'll bet it was like slow roasting in an oven."

My mother dropped all pretense now, puttling the bottle to her lips and up-ending it, right there at the table.

"Sounds like you've had a long day," Dad said. "Why don't you just stay here. Go to bed early."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What's going on?"

"Well, I just thought that, if you weren't needing the car tonight, I might take it for a spin," he said. "After all, I used to let you borrow my car. Seems only fair."

"You let me borrow the Buick."

"Yeah," he said.

"Wait a minute," Lula said. "I'm not ready for bed. I'm ready to kick some F.T.A. ass. I thought we'd have another crack at Golden Graham tonight. It's going to be dark soon, and little geeks should be home in bed by that time."

"Funky Winkerbean has already seen the Porsche," I said. "We can take your Firebird. Maybe we'll catch them off guard."

"So, what do you say? Can I borrow the car?" Dad asked.

I couldn't help smiling. "Yeah, you can borrow it. But not a scratch, alright?"

"I promise," he said, jumping up from the table.

"You're going right now?" my mother asked, shocked.

"We are going right now. The dishes can wait."

My jaw dropped. Mom was reeling in her seat, from both booze and excitement.

Dad went to the front door for my bag and brought it back, handing it to me expectantly. I handed him the key fob, and his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store at Christmas. With Mom in tow, he raced out the front door, toward the small crowd of neighbors admiring the car. I could see the pride he took in getting one up on the Joneses, which was something that very rarely happened.

"That was weird," Lula said into the awkward silence.

"No kidding," I said.

"It's about time Frank took your mother somewhere," Grandma said. "They haven't been out in years."

I helped Grandma clear the table and put away the dishes.

Then Lula and I headed over to Golden Graham's apartment. Parking half a block away, we walked down the dimly lit street at dusk. We could hear sounds inside. Someone was home.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number on the file. We could hear the phone ringing inside. No answer.

"He's in there," Lula whispered.

"Someone's in there."

"I say we kick the door down and drag his boney butt out here," Lula said, still feeling the effects of the go-go juice Tank had given her. "Robbing little girls. I say we find a reason for unnecessary roughness, know what I mean? He might accidentally fall down those concrete stairs on his face or something."

"No," I whispered. "No unnecessary roughness. And no, we can't enter unless we have reason to believe the fugitive is inside."

"Well, I believe it," Lula said.

"That's not going to cut it," I told her. "We have to be sure he's in there."

"We can look in the windows at least, can't we?

"Okay," I agreed.

We snuck around to the back side of the house and the noise inside was louder. Someone was playing a video game.

"Hey, I know that sound," Lula said, standing on tip-toe, trying to peek through the sheet covered window.

I listened. There was a magical cascade of electronic notes that did have a familiar ring to it. Then there was the sound of rapid laser fire, and a deep menacing laugh.

"That's a Griefer," Lula whispered. "He's playing Minionfire."

A while back, my friend Mooner and Morelli's fourteen year old cousin, Zook, got Grandma and Lula involved in an interactive on-line video game called Minionfire. Fortunately, their attention spans are short, and the obsession was short-lived. But for a time, we all lived with the prospect of wood elves and Griefers lurking around every corner, with only a magic spell painted on the house, garage, car, or dog to protect us.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"I guess I'd know that sound anywhere," Lula said, nodding.

"Can you see who's playing?" I asked.

"No. I can't see through these curtains," she complained, jumping up in the air a few times, trying to get a better look. "Let's just try the door knob. If it's open, I say we just go on in. It's pretty much like we were invited."

"No," I shooshed her. "I have a better idea."

I pulled out my cell phone again, and dialed.

"Zook, here. State your name and mission objective."

"This is Stephanie Plum, and I'm calling to get an ID on a local Griefer. Do you think you can help?"

"Are you pulling my chain?" he asked.

"Definitely not," I assured him.

"Who are you looking for?"

"That's what I need you to tell me. Are you in the land of Minionfire right now?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, like that was a dumb question.

"Is there any chance there's a Griefer on line right now that uses any name related to Golden Graham or Funky Winkerbean?"

"There's the Golden Griefer," he answered, "but he's not on right now."

The Griefer inside the house emitted another evil laugh.

"The Griefer I'm interested in just scored or did something he's laughing about," I told him.

"Oh, that guy? He's the O.C.D. Griefer, the Fung Shui Master of Minionfire. Goes by the screen name Soldier of Symmetry."

"Does the Soldier of Symmetry's mother happen to live in the Berg?"

"Yeah. She's scary. We were all playing at a game party, you know, where we all meet at one location with our PC's. We were over at the community college gym last year. She came busting in. Dragged him out by his ear. He forgot to ask permission to leave the house or something."

"Pretty embarrassing," I guessed.

"Yeah, well. I think we were all just glad it wasn't our mother."

I could relate.

"You happen to have Mr. Symmetry's home phone?"

"Sure. The party hosts made us a gamer's directory. It's here somewhere." I heard him digging around his pig-sty of a room. "Yeah, here. Frank Winkerman. 555-6543." This wasn't the number in the file.

"You're the best, Zookmeister."

"You're welcome," he said, and disconnected.

"You stay here and cover the back." I told Lula.

She nodded, grabbing her gun out of her purse and assuming a Charlie's Angels stance, ready for action. I had a moment's hesitation.

"Don't shoot him" I said. "He's unarmed. Just sit on him."

"You sure?" she asked, disappointed.

"Yes," I hissed, pressing her gun down until it was pointed at the ground instead of the back door.

"Fine," she said, shoving the 45 back into her bag, and assuming the stance of a Japanese Sumo wrestler. I wasn't sure this was an improvement, but I figured it was as good as it was going to get.

I went back to the front door and rapped loudly, using my Mini Mag-Lite.

"Frank Winkerman!" I called. "I know you're in there. This is Stephanie Plum. I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds, and I have reason to believe that Gordon Graham, a wanted fugitive, is inside. Open this door."

No response. I pounded on the door again.

"This is your last chance, Frank. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way, but you are going to open this door."

Nothing. By now, neighbors were coming out to watch. I was really glad we hadn't brought Ranger's car. That would have added a whole new level to the attention I was getting.

I dialed the number Zook gave me. After three rings, a woman answered.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Winkerman?" I asked.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Stephanie Plum. I'm a bond enforcement agent for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. I'm standing outside 332 Weaver Street, and I have reason to believe that your son, Frank Winkerman, who I spoke with earlier today, is inside, but is not opening the door. He may be aiding a wanted fugitive. I believe you know Gordon Graham."

"Yes," she said, sounding none too surprised. "That boy has always been trouble. I didn't want Frank sharing that apartment with him, but there was no talking to him. Is Gordon going to jail?"

"Probably not. The offense is not that serious. I expect he'll be out on probation," I said.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed.

"Frank is not picking up the phone. I would appreciate it if you would call Frank. If he picks up, you should inform him that if he doesn't open this door in the next thirty seconds, I am going to report him to the police. It will be up to the DA whether or not to file charges."

"Can I have your number?" she asked.

I gave it to her and disconnected.

Moments later, the phone inside the house rang. The game paused and the phone was picked up on the fifth ring. I waited expectantly on the front porch. When the door opened, a sullen face peered out at me from behind the round rimmed glassed.

"You could have taken the easy way," I told him, pushing my way past him into the apartment. I turned on all the lights as I walked through to the back door. I let Lula in, and together we searched the house. There was no sign of Graham.

"Where is he?" I asked, trying to sound ruthless. If he was scared of his mother, I was hoping he might be equally scared of me. I stood in my Wonder Woman stance, hands on hips, the pinnacle of justice, seeking the evil doer.

"He's not here."

"Okay, well, if he's not here, he has to be somewhere," Lula challenged. "Where do you think that someplace might be?"

"I have no idea," he said, and he didn't sound like he cared in the slightest.

"When did you see him last?" I asked.

"I don't know. The other day."

"Your roommate has been gone a few days, and you haven't reported him missing?" I asked.

"He's not missing. He's just not here," he said, giving me a look like I was crazy.

"Then where is he?"

"Look, we're not all that close, okay? He doesn't check in with me. He's probably at his mother's house. Did you look for him there?"

Damn. I hated it when I missed the obvious.

"This is the address listed on the bond agreement, so this is our first stop," I explained. I fished a pen out of my bag and began writing on the back of the file folder. "What is his mother's address?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know your roommates' permanent address?" I asked.

"We're not best friends or anything," he said.

I was getting that. And I was losing patience with this guys attitude.

"Please, show me to his room," I ordered. I had checked both bedrooms upstairs, but I didn't know which was which.

He looked surprised. "Why?"

"Maybe I can locate the address."

"I doubt it," he said, crossing his arms.

"Let's try it anyway," I insisted. When he hesitated, I pulled out my cell phone. "Should I hit redial?"

"No," he grimaced, leading the way up the stairs.

I followed, while Lula waited downstairs, guarding the door.

Frank indicated the door on the right. All the lights were still on. I turned on the flashlight and checked in the closet. Winter coats and suit coats. I looked under the bed. Not a dust bunny in sight. These boys put my home-making skills to shame, I thought. I opened the drawers, expecting t-shirts, socks, and tighty whities. But they were empty.

"Where are his clothes?" I asked.

Frank shrugged. "Probably at his mom's in the laundry."

I wanted to call him on that one, but truth was, my own clothes were at my Mom's, so, I held my tongue. Not all of my clothes, but I had to admit, it was possible.

I looked in the night stand. Empty. Not even a computer magazine or a box of Kleenex.

"Spartan," I said.

There was a laptop on the computer desk. I opened it and the screen lit up, asking for a password.

"What's the password?" I asked.

Frank shrugged.

"He's missing, but he left his computer behind?"

"He's not missing," Frank growled, exasperated.

I sat down in the chair. I typed GOLDEN GRAHAM. Nope. GOLDEN GRIEFER. Nope. GOLD METAL. Nope.

I felt my spidey sense kick in. Frank was standing in the doorway, and I could swear, just for a second, that I saw a self-satisfied smile on his face. He knew the password.

"What is it?" I demanded, reaching for my phone again. "What is the password?"

He paled.

I pressed re-dial.

"No!" he shouted.

I pressed the cancel button.

"What is the password?"

"Rumpelstiltskin."

"Spins straw into gold. Cute." I said. I started typing, then grit my teeth. "How the hell do you spell it?" I asked. I was starting to hate these guys.

I searched the computer for about five minutes, and discovered only three things about Graham. One, the little turd really was obnoxious. His online posts were moronic. Like most men, he had more porn on his computer than anything else. And most importantly, I learned that he hadn't used the computer once in the last two months. That's a long time for a young man into full-time self-gratification to go without looking at nudie pictures. This meant that he had bolted just after being released on bail. He could be anywhere by now.

"You saw him the other day?" I asked Frank. "You mean, a few months ago?"

He shrugged. "Seems like it was just the other day."

I shut down the computer, turned off the light, and went back down stairs.

"I suggest you call me if you happen to remember where Gordon is," I told Frank, handing him my card. "And next time I knock on this door, you better open it."

"Yeah," Lula said, puffing herself up and shooting him a menacing glare as she followed me out.

We walked down the block and slid into the Firebird.

"You were right," I said. "He's definitely hiding something."

"You think these guys are into more than just knocking over lemonade stands?"

"Maybe." I sighed. "Either way, Golden Graham is in the wind. He hasn't been in that house for the last two months."

"Two months? Good thing he made bail."

"Yeah, great," I said.

"What's with you lately?" Lula wanted to know. "You've been moping and griping and complaining. You on the rag or something?"

"No!"

"What's your problem, then?"

I blew out a sigh. "Same shit, different day, I guess."

"You know what your problem is?" Lula asked. "You don't just live for today. You don't appreciate what you have. I'm telling you, there are people who would kill to have what you got."

"Really? A dead end job and will probably get me dead? A would-be fiancée who I can't seem to commit to? An apartment that looks like it was decorated by Starsky and Hutch? No car. No money. My family is crazy. And…"

Lula raised her eyebrows at me. "And, what?"

"Ranger."

"Yeah, I knew you weren't forgetting about the Wizard."

"I wish I could." I closed my eyes, feeling a painful tightness around my heart at the thought.

"You don't mean that," Lula said.

"Sometimes I think that, if I had never met Ranger, I would already be married to Morelli." What I didn't say was, if Ranger hadn't ruined me for all other men.

"If you hadn't met Ranger, Morelli would be in prison or dead right now, you'd be working at the button factory, and I'd still be a ho down on Stark Street."

I mulled that over for a moment.

"That man is a game changer," she said.

No question. I just wasn't sure what game we were playing, or whether or not I was winning. I suspected it was a lot like Vegas. It's fun while it lasts, but in the end, the house always wins.


	5. Denial and Doubt

After coming up empty at Graham's apartment, Lula and I made an impromptu stop at Costco for bottled water to keep in our bags. The forecast for the next few days didn't promise to be any better than the last. I wanted to be better prepared than Rex the next time the lights went out.

I was still tired, so my plan was simple, get in and get out. But plain old bottled water didn't sound satisfying to Lula, so we each got an eight pack of bottled Gatorade, figuring we would need the electrolytes. As if Gatorade didn't have enough sugar in it already, Lula tossed a bag of Pixie Sticks into the cart.

"Mix in a couple of these, and this stuff will really boost the blood sugar and keep us going," Lula said, as if she were an expert on the subject.

I looked over at her, eyebrows raised.

"What?" she asked.

I could just imagine having been trapped in that elevator with Lula on a sugar high. I rolled my eyes.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, " Lula huffed. "You'll be thanking me later."

Yeah, right.

I remembered the radio announcer suggesting non-perishable food items, so I opted for honey roasted peanuts. After all, peanuts are loaded with complex carbohydrates and protein. They're practically a health food, right? Okay, yes, they're dipped in honey and coated with sugar, but aside from that, they're the perfect summer snack, unlike empty calorie Pixie Stix.

We looked up and down the candy aisle, looking for non-perishable goods that would melt in our mouths and not in our bags. Actually, we both knew what we really wanted…chocolate. And since chocolate wasn't going to be a good choice for tomorrow's heat, we decided we had better have some tonight. But what's chocolate without cake? We made our way down the Tastykake aisle and headed for the checkout.

After we had each downed half a dozen packages of cupcakes and three bottles of Gatorade with Pixie dust, Lula dropped me at my parent's house. It was just after nine o-clock. Ranger's car was still gone. I could imagine a lot of places my parents could be, like showing off at the Elk's Lodge or cruising scenic Highway 29. It was till early, and I didn't expect them back until midnight.

I let myself in and went up to my room to check on Rex. He was running in his wheel in the dark. He stopped when I switched the light on, whiskers whirring. I said hello and dropped him a couple honey roasted peanuts. He stuffed them into his cheeks and disappeared into his soup can.

I checked my phone for messages. I had a text from Rangeman that my door had been replaced, but now I didn't have transportation. I blew out a sigh, changed into cut off sweats and a t-shirt, and climbed into bed.

I woke to the usual sounds of Dad and Grandma fighting over the bathroom. The warm smell of coffee and frying bacon lured me out from under the covers. I padded down the stairs, but stopped short. Someone had gone out for the paper and left the front door open. I could see through the squeaky clean glass of the storm door that Ranger's car was not parked curbside. I raced to the door and checked the drive. No Panamera. My stomach lurched and I got one hell of an adrenaline rush. Or maybe it was a full on panic attack.

I tried to stop and think before reacting. Dad was upstairs fighting with Grandma like it was any other day. I took a deep, calming breath. Probably the car was in the garage. Sure. Dad wouldn't have left it out on the street, I thought. Mom's car was parked in it's usual spot in the drive. The cab was on the curb in it's usual spot. That left room in the garage for both the Buick and the Panamera.

I looked on the side table by the door, and I checked inside my purse. No key, but then, Dad wouldn't leave it lying around in this house. Grandma might be tempted to take a little joy ride.

I headed for the kitchen, in need of a large cup of coffee, but then stopped in my tracks again. Something was off. My mother was humming, or was that singing?

I carefully pushed through the kitchen door. Mom was making eggs in one skillet and bacon in another. There was no sign of the ironing board. Instead, there was a pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice, a platter of homemade biscuits, and I knew gravy would be next in the skillet after the bacon was done. I breathed a sigh of relief. Ranger's car had to be safely tucked away in the garage.

"Good morning!" Mom sang out to me, flashing me a dazzling, tell-tale smile.

"Morning," I answered, cautiously entering the kitchen. I fished a mug out of the cabinet and helped myself to coffee. "Have a nice time last night?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, still with a happy lilt in her voice. "That is such a nice car. It's so quiet, and smooth. I think we should get a car like that."

I choked. "Really?"

"Yes. Your father and I were seriously discussing it last night."

"I'm not sure it would be practical for you guys to own a Porsche," I said. At any moment, I expected to wake up from this bizarre dream.

Grandma sauntered into the kitchen. She stood beside her seat at the table, where her coffee was still steaming.

"Your father has been hogging that bathroom for nearly an hour," Grandma complained.

She was struggling to adjust the front zipper on her lime green jogging suit. The outfit was made for a much younger person. There was a three inch stripe of light pink around her middle, intended to give the impression of a cut-off with hip-hugging bottoms. But, hanging as it did from Grandma's bony frame, the pink stripe circling her mid-riff was sagging and wrinkled, just like the real thing. And the lime green clashed with Grandma's apricot hair, completely washing her out. From beginning to end, it was a car crash. I had to pull my eyes away, trying to focus on the conversation.

"Is Dad okay?" I asked, feeling a little tug of concern. Maybe he didn't want to face me. Maybe it was just a scratch. I glanced back over to mom. No, getting a scratch on a car like that would have her ironing the napkins, the curtains, everything.

"He's in there sprucing up. I guess he's got some new after shave. He's stinking up the whole upstairs. I had to go next door to Mabel's to use the john."

I raised my eyebrows and looked over at my mom.

"You girls are always going on about how good that Ranger smells. I didn't notice when he was over for dinner that time. But that car of his smelled so good, I mean, the smell of leather and that wonderful cologne," she rolled her eyes with delight. "Well, I told Frank we had to get some of that."

I didn't know whether to laugh or agree with her. I knew what the smell of Ranger did to me, but I didn't want to think about my dad smelling that good. Dad usually smelled like…dad, mixed with stale Old Spice deodorant.

"Where did you get Bulgari Green Shower Gel in the middle of the night?" I asked.

"Frank knows someone," she said with a shrug. "I don't know what it's called, but we bought some primo stuff."

I nearly shot a swallow of coffee out my nose. "You bought primo stuff from 'someone'?" I choked out. I was living in Twilight Zone. "Since when have you and Dad become patrons of the black market?" I asked, seriously.

"Since Frank figured out what he's been missing all these years," Grandma said, giving me a wink.

"It was cologne, not illegal substances," my mother clarified. "Besides, it was your father's idea, and I didn't want to discourage him," she said, casually.

"My mother, the law breaker," I gasped, looking to Grandma in disbelief.

"It's exciting to break the rules now and then," Grandma said. She should know.

Mom brought over a plate of bacon and eggs. I grabbed a plate and helped myself, hoping to keep my mouth too full of food to comment any further.

Minutes later, dad came into the kitchen and sat down in his chair. I stared at him for several beats. He was clean shaven. He'd trimmed his eyebrows. I didn't see any ear hair, inside or out. He was wearing his black Tony Soprano shirt with a new pair of black jeans. I say they were new, because Dad didn't own any black jeans. And I hate to say it, but he did smell great. It wasn't Bulgari, but it was primo stuff with a hint of leather. Very masculine. And there was a confident look on his face I had never seen before.

"You were in the bathroom for an hour, and still managed to miss a big spot," Grandma told Dad, pointing to his jaw. "Hold on." She leaned closer, squinting at him. "Is that a bruise?" She examined him more closely, looking at his eye. "Are you wearing makeup?"

Dad didn't answer. He was focused on filling his plate.

I looked at his hands. The knuckles of his right hand were definitely bruised.

Grandma looked over at my mother. "Did you pay for that primo stuff, or steal it?"

"Of course we didn't steal it," she laughed.

"Looks like you guys had one heck of a night out," Grandma said with a whistle.

I glanced over at Dad. His mouth was set, but his eyes were smiling as he glanced knowingly over at mom before disappearing behind his newspaper.

My mind immediately rejected all thoughts on the subject. I didn't want to know. I focused my attention on assembling a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit.

Mom brought Dad a cup of coffee and a glass for orange juice. For a second, his hand hovered over the table, as if he was considering reaching out for her backside or pulling her in for a kiss, but thought better of it with me and Grandma watching him. Mom noticed, and was trying not to smile.

"Oh my God!" I said, getting up from the table.

"Oh, get over it," Dad said from behind the paper.

"Can I have the key back, please?" I held out my hand expectantly.

"Sure," he said, reluctantly fishing it out of his pocket and handing it to me. "That's one sweet ride. You better take care of it."

"Thanks. I will," I said, heading out the door.

"You coming for supper?" Mom called after me, sounding hopeful.

I was about to answer "no", when I realized that if I didn't catch Graham today, I would need to mooch dinner. "Maybe. I'll be back later," I yelled from the front door. I had to come back for Rex and my clothes anyway, but right now, I just had to get out of there.

I swung through the door at the bond's office, looking for Lula. Her car was out front, but I didn't see her at first. She was wearing a chocolate brown tank top and skirt, lying on the dark leather sofa. She was doing a pretty good impression of a chameleon. I did a double take. Blending in was something I didn't even know Lula was capable of.

I turned to Connie. "I can't even tell you what a strange day this is turning out to be."

"No kidding," she said. "Morelli was just here looking for you."

I checked my phone. One missed call. I hit voice mail and listened to the message.

"Stephanie," Morelli groaned, his tone strangely contrite. "I know I got a little crazy about the car. I realize now that I should have trusted you. But it's hard, sometimes, especially after Hawaii…" he broke off. "Let's just put all of that behind us. I love you, and you love me, and we belong together. I realize now there's nothing Manoso can do to change that, as much as he might like to. I shouldn't have let him get to me. I'm sorry. I'm apologizing, on my knees. Cupcake, please forgive me. I'll see you tonight for dinner. Six o'clock, on the dot. I won't be late. Love you." And he disconnected.

I had to play the message back a second time. Then I checked the time on the message. I felt my eyes grow wide. It was received at 2:50 am. No wonder I missed his call. My phone had been in my purse by the front door last night.

Connie was watching me with an amused expression on her face. "So, what's up with Morelli?" she wanted to know.

"I have no idea," I said, shaking my head to clear it. "All I know is I need to find Graham." I turned toward the couch. "Lula? You riding with me?"

Lula opened one eye. "Ugh," she answered.

"What's your problem?" I asked, crossing my arms and looking down at her.

"I think that go-go juice Tank gave her wore off," Connie said, smacking her stapler a couple times. Normally, a loud, sudden noise would spook Lula, but not today. It didn't even register.

I poured Lula a cup of coffee. I doctored it up with lots of cream and sugar. Then I pulled her into a sitting position and placed the cup in her hand.

"Drink it," I ordered.

Lula looked down at the cup in her shaking hand. She seemed to be completely exhausted.

"All I remember is going home, and feeling like I had all this energy," she mumbled. "I was just going to pick up some of the clothes that were lying on the floor in my closet, and next thing I knew, I was trying them all on, organizing each collection by color."

I got a visual. Lula had converted the bedroom of her apartment into a walk-in closet. She slept on the couch in the living room. Her clothes were her identity, her top priority. Trying them all on would have taken hours, if not days.

"Once everything was hung up, I could see the floor," Lula continued. "It had been a while since I cleaned, so I was vacuuming. That's when I noticed the spider webs in the corners." Lula gave an involuntary shiver. Lula hated spiders. "I couldn't reach them with the vacuum, so I climbed up on a chair with a broom, trying to get rid of those nasty things, but they just stuck to the walls. I figured I would have to wipe them off, so I got a damp cloth. When I was done, the rest of the wall looked dirty. So I got a big bucket of soapy water and started scrubbing. And next thing I knew, I was on my hands and knees, cleaning the kitchen floor." Lula paused for a breath. "I don't know what I was thinking. It was like invasion of the body snatchers. Aliens took over or something. All I know is, that wasn't me in there." Lula shuddered. "When I got up this morning, the ring around the tub was gone. I don't even remember being in the bathroom last night."

"I'm thinking I want some of that go-go juice," Connie said. "Where did Tank take you again?"

"Trust me, you don't want to go there," Lula panted.

"How many more Gatorade Pixies did you have last night?" I asked.

"All of them," Lula moaned.

"And the cupcakes?"

Lula belched. "Yep."

Connie raised her eyebrows at me. "Gatorade Pixies?"

I opened my bag, revealing my stash. "Oh my God," she said, laughing. "You had eight of those on top of the go-go juice?"

"Plus cupcakes," I reminded her.

Lula moaned again. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck. I'm taking the day off." She handed me the coffee and slumped back down into the couch.

"I guess you're on your own today," Connie told me.

"Fine," I sighed. "You don't have anything else for me?" I asked hopefully.

"Nada. I'll call you if something comes in."

"Thanks," I said, heading out the door, into the bright scorcher of a day.

I slid behind the wheel and started the car. I locked the doors, turned on the air, and pulled out my cell.

"Blybold Wizard Hotline. Please state your emergency."

"Zook, it's Stephanie Plum. I need information."

"Again?" he asked.

"More of the same. Do you know the real name of the Golden Griefer?"

"Yeah. Gordon Graham. He's a real ass."

"So I gathered."

"Why are you looking for him? Is he a fugitive from the law?"

"Yep."

"Awesome. You going to lock him up for life?"

"Not me personally. That's up to the state of New Jersey," I told him.

"Good thing it's not up to me, or any of the other serious players of Minionfire."

"Any chance Graham was listed in that gamer's directory?"

"Yeah. Hang on. I'll get it."

I could hear Zook digging around.

"So, Graham and Winkerman are pretty good friends, huh?" I asked.

"No," Zook laughed. "Griefer's don't usually have any friends."

"Well, they're sharing an apartment," I said.

"Really? That's too weird," Zook said. "Two Griefer's in the same house?"

"Well, who else would want to room with them?"

"Good point." Zook was paging through the directory. "Last year, Graham's address was 732 Watson. I figured he moved away. Like I said before, he hasn't been online for a while now."

"About two months?" I asked.

"Yeah. Last time he insulted me was early summer, just after school let out."

"Was he working anywhere that you know of? Maybe something under the table?" I wondered.

Zook laughed. "Work? That guy? No way. He collects a disability check due to his 'learning problems'." Zook made a rude noise. "I flunk math, social studies, and phys ed, and I get summer school or held back a grade. A guy like that flunks everything, and they graduate him on time and mail him a check every month for the rest of his life," Zook complained. "Life's not fair."

"So I've heard," I said, remembering Gazarra's reaction to Ranger's car the other day.

I had kind of picked up that Graham was Special Ed from the file, but having Zook confirm it made me feel even lower. I was now officially rounding up the mentally handicapped. Granted, some of the guys I had dragged back to jail acted like morons, but this was a whole new level of not-cool in my book.

"So, what did he do to get you on his case?" Zook wanted to know.

"He held up a lemonade stand at bb gun-point and made off with the pitcher and cash," I told him.

"Figures," Zook scoffed.

"Yeah. He'll probably get probation."

"Whatever," he sighed. "I just can't imagine living with that O.C.D. neat-freak. I'd rather rot in jail."

"Why's that?"

"That guy, The Soldier of Symmetry or Funky Whatever-his-real-name-is, is crazy about things being neat and tidy."

"You mean, he's a Germaphobe?"

"I don't know what you call it. He's just weird about stuff. He carries a portable keyboard vac and cleaning wipes in his back pack. It's like he thinks he's living in Gattaca or something. And, like, he never wants any of his food to touch on the plate, that kind of thing. You should see this guy eat a hamburger. And he's allergic to stuff. He'll throw a real fit if he thinks his food has been contaminated. I mean, like, he would bring his own snacks to the PC parties. Last time, someone managed to slip a pickle in his special homemade potato chips, and he went bonkers," Zook laughed.

"What kind of bonkers?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, shouting that we didn't respect a man's need to control his environment, stuff like that. And that was just before his mother came and dragged him home. Some big man," Zook laughed. "He has control of squat."

"Control issues, huh?"

"Well, yeah. Like I said, you should meet his mom. She'd give anyone control issues." I could hear Zook physically shudder.

"So, what kind of Griefer is he, anyway? What's his deal?"

"He thinks he's some kind of virtual policeman. If any faction seems to be gaining power, he makes it his job to bring them back into balance, to keep order in the game. When he's around, it 's virtually impossible to make any kind of alliance that would de-stabilize a region. We haven't had a full-on revolt in our sector in years. We've all asked the Grand Wizard to exile him, but he's put it back on us to meet the challenge. Personally, I think he's afraid Winkerman is crazy enough to sue him over it. The Grand Wizard is writing new games now, and could stand to make a lot of money if they get picked up by a big distributor. He doesn't want to get involved in a messy lawsuit right now."

"Frank Winkerman hardly seems like a credible threat," I said, shaking my head at the idea.

"No, but his dad is an ambulance chaser. If he thinks there could be big money in it, he might take more of an interest. It would give Winker-whatsis a chance to bond with daddy."

"So, they aren't close?" I asked.

"Nah. He's hardly seen his dad since the divorce."

"Ok, good to know." I filed that tidbit away for later.

"Look, it's been real, but I've got a meeting in five with the gnomes. You understand."

"Yeah. Do me a favor, and call me if you see Graham online, okay?"

"Sure," he said, and he disconnected.

I pulled out and headed for 732 Watson. I knew the neighborhood. It was a collection of red brick row houses was so narrow and run down, they would have blended in down on Stark Street. This was definitely not the sort of place that would encourage learning and personal growth, unless a young man's ultimate goal in life was to be a pimp. In that case, it was perfect. I intended to make a casual inquiry, in case Graham was staying in the area with friends or neighbors.

I had just merged into traffic when my cell rang. It was Ranger.

"Yo," I answered.

"Babe," he said, his tone rather cool.

"What's up?" I asked nervously.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You stayed at your parent's last night?"

"Yeah. I got Hector's message, but I was already settled in, so I decided to go to bed early."

Silence.

"Hello?"

"You get a good night's sleep?" he asked in a near whisper.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yes," I assured him. "I'm feeling much better today, and I've got plenty of Gatorade and peanuts in my bag. I promise, you won't need to bail me out today."

"Too bad," he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "You got Lula with you?" he asked.

I checked my mirror, but I didn't see my tail. "She's taking a personal day," I told him.

"What about you?"

"I'm working."

"Golden Graham?" he asked. I could hear him smiling on the other end of the line.

"Yes," I said, blowing out a sigh. "Someone has to do it. What about you? Are you after Rah Rah today?"

"Yes. I'm holed up in an abandoned building waiting for him to show himself. Could be a long wait."

"No air conditioning, I assume?"

"No," Ranger said. "But I'm not in the sun, and this place has been pretty well ventilated."

"Ventilated, like the Valentine's Day Massacre?"

"Definitely renovated by the mob."

Dead Man's Wharf was about as seedy as it gets, and I could just imagine the smell of dead fish and urine, not to mention gunpowder and blood, that must have been masking the scent of Bulgari right about now. Flies and other insects would be buzzing around attracting spiders and mice. I got a full body shiver.

"It's only for a few days," Ranger said, reassuring me.

"I guess the smell will wash off," I decided.

"Yeah," he agreed. From his voice, I could tell I was right about the stench. "But the payday is worth it."

I wasn't sure any price was worth it. Then again, my definition of acceptable working conditions had been steadily deteriorating ever since I took this job. Ranger had been at it a lot longer. He had developed an incredibly high tolerance for pain and irritation.

"Gotta go, Babe," he whispered.

"I'll see you soon," I told him, and he disconnected.

I suspected he had just seen his man, and that he was going to be wrapping this thing up soon.

I thought again for a moment about Gazarra complaining that life wasn't fair, and Morelli's outrage that Ranger was driving a car that cost more than Morelli would make in ten years. Ranger was the only man I knew who would do whatever it took to bring in a life-sucking leach like Rah Rah. Ranger didn't watch and wait six months for an easy takedown opportunity to present itself, Trenton PD style. Ranger would create an opportunity and bring in the bad guy in a matter of days, if not hours. I couldn't imagine Gazarra, Morelli, or anyone else for that matter, making the personal sacrifices or taking the risks that Ranger did. And that's why I wasn't really jealous of what he had. I knew Ranger consistently risked big, and he collected big. That also meant that if he ever lost, he would lose big. I didn't have the guts to play the game on that level every day. No one else did.

Even though I understood this about Ranger, and I felt like I knew him better than most, I knew he still kept a few dark secrets from me, and sometimes I had doubts. I remembered the time Ranger took me with him to visit Rufus Caine. Rufus was a middle-management drug dealer. Ranger just walked in, sat down, and exchanged information with this guy. They didn't seem buddy-buddy, but they seemed to have a certain familiarity, even trust. Ranger gave up a guy named Jimmy Monster, informing Rufus that Jimmy was wearing a wire. Now, I didn't know who Jimmy was, but I assumed Jimmy was a dead man when that wire was revealed. I also assumed that the cops, ATF, or FBI on the other end of that wire were shit out of luck on that special op. What if a major drug dealer got away because Ranger needed to get information to help me? I knew that, because he loved me, Ranger would do whatever it took to keep me safe. Ranger didn't seem to lose any sleep over it. But I had to admit, I laid awake for more than a few hours worrying over the implications. How did Ranger know about the wire, anyway? And then, an even more disturbing thought had entered my head. What if it was Morelli's operation? Maybe there was more to Morelli's distrust of Ranger than I was aware of. I wondered.

Then there was the time Ranger helped me rescue Mooner and Dougie from a mobster's crazy wife. We were questioned by the police for some time, and Ranger had whispered to me that we should leave as soon as possible. He didn't want the police to look too closely at the car. When I first met Ranger, it was easy to believe that these sleek black sports cars were hot. But the more I got to know Ranger, the less likely that seemed to me. I had never pressed him to tell me where the cars came from, but sometimes I had seriously wondered if everyone was right about Ranger. Did he steal cars from high end drug dealers just for kicks, daring them to come after them? That didn't work for me, since he let me borrow them so often. He said giving me cars kept me safe. If they were hot, that statement wouldn't make any sense. No to mention, he would have been busted when I blew them up or crushed them. He had calmly handed his card to the officers and signed off on the police reports and insurance forms. No, Ranger's cars couldn't be stolen. There had to be some other explanation.

And what about his driver's license? The address he used was a vacant lot. Why didn't he use the Rangeman building's Haywood address? Rangeman was like Fort Knox. Besides, anyone who was a serious threat to Ranger would know where to find him. I didn't think keeping the Haywood address off his DMV report would make much of a difference. Maybe it just kept the girls at the bars he frequented from flocking to the front doors. I could imagine they would card him every chance they got. I had to smile, remembering the time he took me to a strip club. Yeah, that would explain it.

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

In the end, Ranger was still a mystery to me.


	6. The Piranha Tank

I pulled up to the curb in front of 732 Watson. Looking up and down the empty street, I decided to err on the side of caution. I dug around in my purse and found my pepper spray, slipping it into my jeans pocket.

I got out and beeped the alarm on as I approached the door. There was no porch at all, just three small, concrete steps leading up to the doors. I reached right through the ripped screen and knocked on the door, waiting nervously. I was keeping an eye out so I wouldn't get jumped. I couldn't help glancing toward the street corners, hoping to see any sign of Rangeman, but my tail was too well hidden.

I knocked again more loudly. A moment later, an elderly black man stuck his head out two doors down. He had on a graying wife-beater shirt which matched his graying hair and accentuated his one gray eye. He squinted at me with the other eye.

"You can stop that banging. Ain't no one living there," he called out in a gruff voice. He was feebly shaking a walking cane at me.

I stepped back from the door and cautiously approached the man.

"I'm looking for Gordon Graham. This residence is listed as his last known address," I told him. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"Who are you and what do you want?" he spat.

He eyed the car with suspicion, then looked back at me, trying to size me up. I was wearing my usual work uniform; pony tail, minimal make-up, worn-out jeans, and a faded t-shirt. I could see the gears turning in his head, but he was coming up with zip, and that had him curious. Jackpot. There's no better way to get information than from the nosy neighbor.

I smiled reassuringly at him. "Graham entered a contest sponsored by Grand Wizard Games," I explained. "As the lucky winner, he will become a character in the next release of the Minionfire video game franchise. I'm here to pick him up for his first interview, so we can scan him digitally, record samples of his voice, that kind of thing," I lied.

"You seriously expect me to believe that?" he asked, laughing.

"Why is that so hard to believe? If you know Graham at all, you know he spends thousands of hours playing Minionfire. His Golden Griefer is famous in certain circles." I stood, hands on hips, giving him my most serious expression.

"You gonna pay him?" the man asked.

"No," I said. "But there are other benefits."

"Well, he ain't here, so I guess you're gonna have to draw another name out of the hat," he said.

"We don't want someone else," I explained. "I have been sent to locate Graham. Can you direct me to a friend or relative in the area?"

The man glanced at my car again. "You serious?"

"Yes," I assured him. "I will find him. That's my job, and I'm very good at it."

"What about a finder's fee?" he asked, holding out his hand and rubbing his fingers together in the universal sign for money.

I didn't actually have any money. I spent what little extra I made playing "taxi" at Costco. But telling him that would blow my cover. This neighborhood was a lot like Lula's neighborhood. I figured playing "taxi" was as good as cash around here. Why not try it one last time? As long as I didn't circle the block for a hour, Ranger probably wouldn't find out about it.

I smiled. "I make it a policy not to pay for information. It cuts into my bottom line," I told him. "How about a trade?"

"What kind of trade?"

"I can see you like the looks of my car," I told him. "How about, I take you for a ride for as long as you're talking to me about Graham. When you're done talking, I bring you back."

The man considered for a moment.

"Can we drive by the barber shop real slow? I want all those young men down there to see me cruising by them in style."

"Sure," I said, walking towards the car and beeping the alarm off. "Let's go."

He locked up and hobbled down the steps, leaning heavily on his cane. After several minutes, he was finally able to lower himself down into the seat and I got the door closed.

I rounded the car and angled in. "Start talking," I ordered, starting the engine.

He was speechless, looking at all the buttons and gauges. He fingered the leather and chrome. I waited, indicating that the car was not going to be moving unless his mouth was.

"Any time," I said, growing impatient.

"His mother had cancer," he began, and I pulled slowly away from the curb. "She was sick for a long time. She died earlier this year."

"What about his dad?" I asked.

"Good for nothing," he answered. "Turn left up ahead."

I signaled and changed lanes.

"I hear Graham's father is an attorney?"

"Yeah, but he's not very good. Barely passed the exam, and he's been in jail for contempt a few times. Judges don't like it when an attorney comes to court with a snoot-full."

"No kidding?"

"Third right. Then slow down as we pass by."

"Okay," I said. "So, was his mother working?"

"She was a waitress, but she couldn't work no more."

"What did they do for money?"

"They were both on disability. And I guess she was selling the cancer meds they were giving her."

"What?" I asked, turning to look at him. "Why would she do that?"

"I don't know. She wasn't supposed to be terminal. But when she got worse, one of the other women on the block took her to the hospital. They tested her blood and said there was no sign of the drugs in her system. She swore she was taking them."

I turned the corner and slowed down, cruising past the barber shop. About twelve black men in their late teens and early twenties were standing around or leaning against the brick store front. They were all tattooed, wearing gold chains, sports jerseys, baggy jeans, and expensive sneakers. My passenger laughed and gave them all the finger as we passed by. The young men exchanged disbelieving looks and started yelling at us as we turned the corner. A few even chased us down the street, so I sped up.

"Was that fun?" I asked, glancing over at him.

"You bet!" He was grinning ear to ear.

"Anywhere else you want to go?"

"The senior center," he said.

I signaled to turn.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"The senior center," I answered.

"MY senior center, not YOUR senior center," he clarified. "Go west down Merchant, and I'll tell you where to turn."

"You want to make another run, you need to keep talking," I reminded him.

"Fine," he said, settling back into his seat. "So, the hospital called the cops. Some Narcs came down with a warrant and searched the house, but they didn't find nothing. Wasn't nothing to find," he said with a shrug. He tried to shift in his seat, groaning like his back hurt. "They tried to say she was selling the drugs for money, but they didn't find any sign she'd ever had any money, so they couldn't hold her. We figure someone at the hospital gave her junk pills and that's who sold the drugs. But they don't check those people out, you know."

"If that was the case, she was murdered," I realized.

"Prove it," he scoffed with undeniable contempt for the police.

"Do you believe she died because she did not receive the prescribed meds?" I asked, trying to clarify the story.

"I know she did."

"What happened to Graham when she died?"

"He said he was going to live with some guy across town."

"Did you ever see this guy?"

"No," he admitted. "Turn here," he said.

"What about his Dad? Why wasn't he involved in this?"

"He couldn't help. He's a joke. Cops aren't going to take him seriously."

"What about his son? Didn't he take Gordon after his mom died?"

"No. He was at the funeral, but he passed out and some guys stuffed him in the back seat of his car. Later, after the service, I saw Gordon go over to the car and open the door. He was just standing there . For a second, I thought it was a touching moment, but then I realized Gordon was taking a leak." He laughed. "That pretty much sums it up."

"When was the funeral?" I asked.

The old man tried to think. "January or February. It was wintertime." He tried to sit up higher in the seat. "Slow down, woman," he barked as we flew past an apartment building. There were half a dozen card tables set up on the sidewalk, and old men were playing cards or board games and drinking.

"That's the senior center?" I asked, giving him a doubtful glance.

"It's not government funded," he snapped back. "But this is where we go to keep up on the latest. Go around the block."

I signaled and turned.

"Have you seen Graham since the funeral?" I asked.

"Not since he came for his things."

"Who drove him across town? Didn't someone have to help him move?"

"He took a taxi. Only had a couple bags."

We turned the corner and I slowed down as we passed the card tables. Several elderly men were smiling appreciatively at the car as we slid past. My passenger smiled triumphantly back at the gawkers.

"Anything else you want to tell me?" I asked as we turned the corner.

"Nope, that's all I got."

"Does Graham have any friends in the neighborhood? Anyone he might stay in contact with?"

"Nope. His mom had a few friends, but none of them would put up with the mouth on that boy."

"I understand he has some kind of learning disorder?"

"Learning disorder?" The man laughed our loud.

"Isn't he on disability because of a learning disorder?"

He laughed again. "No. It ain't no learning disorder. He's got some kind of medical condition. His mother told me what it was once, but I can't remember. You know, them damn doctors name everything in Latin. I remember what the words meant, though. 'Shit talk'. Fancy, educated, high-falutin doctors, make everything sound so serious. You know what they're actually doing is talking pig-latin. We have e-bonics. They have ed-bonics. They use their education to get paid for making fun of everyone with a condition. They look down their spectacles at this boy and say, 'Your son has a chronic condition known as blah-ditty-blah.' What they're really doing is saying, right to your face, 'Your son is talking shit.' And then they send you a huge bill, and tell you to come back in a few weeks so they can do it again." The man threw his hands up in disgust. "It should be a crime."

"Is he on medication?" I asked.

"He's on all kinds of medication. Some of it's for seizures and other shit. I don't know. But I guess he can't help what comes out of his mouth. His mother said the cussing and insults weren't really directed at anyone, but to hide it, the boy started insulting people all the time, trying to make it seem like he knew what he was saying. I don't know whether it's true or not. All I know is there were several times I wanted to thrash that boy to within an inch of his life." He glared out the window, shaking his head in disgust. "I guess he couldn't help it, but you'd think one of those doctors could have at least sewn his mouth shut." He glanced over at me. "And you want to make him famous for it?"

"Well, I didn't say that, exactly," I hedged.

"You want to put THAT into your computer game?" He shook his head. "That's just typical of this generation."

I pulled up to the curb in front of the old man's house.

"Thank you for the ride," he said, opening the door, and beginning the slow process of climbing out.

I turned off the ignition and went around to the passenger side to help extricate him from the car. One of the women from the down block came out of her house and walked over to us. She looked like she just got home from putting in over-time down on Stark Street. She was barely wearing anything at all but her heels.

"Norman, whatcha doin' with this white girl?" she asked, sounding offended.

"Not what you think," he grunted as I pulled him to his feet. He got his balance, and leaned heavily on his cane.

"Uh-huh," she said, hands on hips. "What-chew doin', then?"

"Just slid by the boys, making them drool," he said, grinning at her.

"Uh-huh," she said. Now she looked me up and down, skeptically. "And what the hell are you doing here?"

I closed the passenger door, biding my time, trying not to look nervous.

"She's looking for that Graham boy," Norman told her, waiving her away. "None of your business."

"He don't live here no more," she told me. "You're Lula's girlfriend," she said, accusingly. "And I know who's car that is, too."

"Gotta go," I said, rounding the front of the car and opening the door.

"And you a fool old man, talking to the likes of her," she told Norman, chewing him out. "Them boys down town ain't gonna let you forget it, neither."

"You don't know," he said, waiving her off as he hobbled towards his door. "She's some kind of promoter. She's gonna make that Graham boy famous."

The woman burst out laughing. "That there's Stephanie Plum, the bounty hunter. And if she's here, it's because that Graham boy is already famous, 'cause his face is on a wanted poster."

Norman turned back to look at me. I flashed him an apologetic smile.

"He'll probably get probation," I assured him.

"Then, where'd you get that car?" he asked.

"That's Ranger Manoso's car, fool," the woman told him, spitting her gum out into the street. "Who else would dare to drive Rude Tyrant's one-of-a-kind Piranha-mera?"

"Wait," I choked. "You're saying you know this car?"

"Yeah, I know the car, bitch. What, you don't even know what car you're driving?" She looked incredulous. "I thought you were smart." She snapped her fingers are me. "Hello?"

"Who is Rude Tyrant?" I asked, holding onto the open driver's side door for support as my knees began shaking.

"Who is Rude Tyrant?" she laughed. "Only the latest drug kingpin to be sentenced to life after your boyfriend dragged him back to jail."  
I was confused for a moment. Was she talking about Ranger, or Morelli?

She raised her eyebrows at me. "You gonna stand there and act like you don't know what I'm talking about? You're driving the man's trophy around town like it's a taxi. What's wrong with you, Girl? You disrespecting your man's rep like that?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

"You a bounty hunter?" Norm asked me, giving me a true death glare.

"Ranger said it was just a car," I said to no one in particular. I think I was in shock.

"The Piranha-mera ain't just a car." She waggled her manicured finger at the car, as if tracing a large figure eight, making her gold bracelets jangle. "How you think Manoso moves in those deep, dark circles, huh? He's gotta look just like one of them. He's gotta move like 'em, think like 'em, until they accept him. He gots a crew. He gots money. He gots fame. He gots respect. That Ranger Manoso looks just like them otha gangstas, swimmin' 'round in the piranha tank. They all think they's safe with him around, long as they ain't bleeding. Ranger only strikes after they've been busted and they're runnin'. By that time, they's going down one way or another. No one holds that against him. It's in their nature. All the fish strike when there's blood in the water."

I was speechless. I believed her. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Ranger had actually loaned me a drug kingpin's infamous car. And I had let my parents take it out on the town. I nearly lost my breakfast.

"I gotta go," I said, sinking down into the seat and turning on the ignition. I put on my seat belt and pulled away, ignoring the voices that droned on behind me.

I merged into traffic and headed downtown as I fished my phone out of my purse. I dialed Ranger, but it went straight to voice mail. I considered leaving a message, but I wasn't quite capable of forming words, so I hung up.

I took a deep breath. I thought about the looks on the faces of the young men at the barber shop. I assumed they were just in awe of the hot car. Did they all know something about this car that I didn't know?

I looked down at my phone and dialed my friend Marilyn Truro. Marilyn worked at the DMV, and had helped me more than once in the past.

"Stephanie Plum," she answered. "What's up? Still leading a life of crime-fighting?"

"I'm trying," I sighed. "I could use some help," I told her, hoping my voice wasn't shaking as much as the rest of me.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"I need you to run a VIN number," I told her, pulling into the parking garage at St. Francis. I needed someplace to park where I would be out of sight for a few minutes.

"Go ahead when you're ready," she said.

I opened the door and read the numbers off the little ID plate on the door frame.

"Holy cow!" Marilyn whispered. "What the hell are you mixed up in?"

"What can you tell me?" I asked.

"Well, the VIN was first recorded at a high end car dealership in New York City. From there, it was purchased by a Frederick C. Bradshaw of Millburn, New Jersey. That's a ritzy address. I just Googled it," she told me. "It's a mansion."

"How long did he have the car?" I asked.

"Not long. About six months. Then things get fishy."

"What kind of fishy?" I asked, swallowing hard.

"From what I'm seeing, this Bradshaw character could afford a car like this, but it was sold for the minimum allowed charge to a Jimmy J. Walker of Trenton. This guy's address is East Trenton."

"Did you Google that address?" I asked.

"Yeah, and it isn't good," she said. Roughly translated, it was in a run-down black neighborhood bordering Hamilton Township.

"Drug dealer?" I asked.

"Looks like. Bradshaw probably had a bad habit, or somehow these guys blackmailed him or held him at gunpoint or something. I don't know. But this Jimmy J. Walker only had the car about a month. Then he went missing and the car was reported as stolen. It was reportedly spotted several times down on Passaic." Neither of us had to Google that address, either. Only a drug dealer would take a car like that to a depressed, boarded up neighborhood.

"Then what?"

"Then nothing."

"Nothing? What do you mean nothing? Who owns the car now?" I asked.

"The status was changed last week from 'Stolen' to 'Transferred'," she said.

"So, that means the ownership is being transferred," I assumed. Maybe Ranger's paperwork just hadn't been uploaded to the system yet.

"No," Marilyn answered. "It usually means the DMV file is being transferred from one state to another. That's not uncommon with stolen cars, especially where drugs are involved. They're always turning up somewhere else, up and down the coast. A car that fast would probably be used to carry drugs up from Miami. The cops couldn't possibly catch it."

I let that sink in for a moment. Rangeman had an office in Miami. Ranger frequently traveled to Miami. This car could have been used to evade police and carry drugs from Miami to Trenton.

"Are you looking _for_ this car? Or, are you looking _at_ this car?" Marilyn asked in a hushed tone.

I didn't answer.

"You got a plate?" she asked.

I got out of the car and walked to the back, looking down at the plate. It was a Jersey plate, as shiny and new as the car. I swallowed hard. What if the plate wasn't legal? I didn't have the guts to find out.

"No. But, for the sake of argument, how many black Panameras are there in New Jersey?" I asked.

Marilyn ran a search. "Well, I've got about a hundred and fifty Panameras in the state, but only twenty are Turbo S, only three are new, only one of those are black, and none have the options of the VIN you gave me."

"So, there are no other cars like this one in New Jersey?"

"There are no other cars exactly like that one registered in New Jersey," she clarified.

"Who owns the other new, black Panamera Turbo S?" I asked.

Marilyn pressed a few buttons. "Uh, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"The Governor."

"Joe Juniak?" I hadn't expected that. I knew Joe Juniak personally, and so did Ranger. Juniak was the former Trenton Police Chief. He served as Mayor on his way to the Governor's mansion. He was also sort of family. His second cousin was married to my cousin-in-law, so that made us...almost cousins. "When did he buy his car?" I asked.

"Registered it three days ago," she said. "Steph, be careful," she urged.

"I will," I answered weakly.

"You owe me a drink," she added.

"You got it," I promised. "Soon. I'll call you." And I disconnected.


	7. Cubed

I needed a new lead on Graham, so I crossed the parking lot and entered St. Francis. I checked the directory and found my way to the hospital's research library. It didn't take long to locate the Latin words for "shit talk". A little more digging, and I found that Graham's condition was most likely Coprolalia. It was rare, there was no real treatment, and not much research had been done on it. That must really piss him off, I thought, smiling ruefully to myself. I could just imagine what he'd said to the doctor that delivered the diagnosis. It probably steamed up his glasses.

I went online, searching for any support groups in the area. Since the condition was rare, I struck out on that. And since I didn't know enough about his seizures to make any headway, I tried general searches using all of the names I had associated with Graham, hoping to luck into some random post he may have made recently to a forum, blog, or website. Maybe he Tweeted or had an obscene Facebook, I thought hopefully. Maybe I could find some clue as to where he was.

The janitor came in, dumping trash baskets and wiping down the study areas. The smell of industrial disinfectant was making me nauseous, so I dug a mint out of my bag. He glanced my way, and I tried to smile, but frankly, he was a little creepy. I wouldn't want to run into this guy in a dark morgue at night. He was about twenty, still pimply and rather thin, with dark hair badly in need of a trim, dark eyes that didn't seem friendly, and a cigarette crease nearly splitting his bottom lip. He didn't look well.

I thought about what Norman told me about Graham's mother, about someone at the hospital stealing her cancer meds. I decided to give that angle a try. I typed the new parameters into the Internet search.

What I came up with was a rant posted to the Trenton Times editorial page by G. Gold. He claimed his mother's cancer medication had been stolen by someone on staff at St. Francis. This story matched Norman's story. G. Gold was outraged that Trenton P.D. refused to investigate their claims because of their address and because they were on disability. He claimed the medication was dispensed at the hospital, not at a local pharmacy. His mother suffered from a type of leukemia, and had been prescribed Gleevec. She had completed three rounds of the medication as prescribed by her doctor, but no evidence of the drug appeared in her blood work. What did appear was liver damage caused by over-use of Ibuprofen. G. Gold insisted she hadn't taken any Ibuprofen. After her death, he discovered that it would be easy to mimic a Gleevec pill with Ibuprofen. Gold took one of her Gleevec prescription bottles containing a few similar looking, generic Ibuprofen to the doctor that prescribed the meds, claiming he found them in the cabinet and didn't know what to do with them. The doctor was fooled. When asked if these were the pills prescribed, he looked at the label. He shook a few pills into his hand, looking at the stamped numbers which represented Ibuprofen, and agreed that the pills were Gleevec. Gold argued that if a cancer doctor can't tell the difference, how could his mother be expected to? Gold filed a report with Trenton P.D. but was denied a homicide investigation due to lack of evidence and no motive. Assuming the doctor had been uncooperative, he submitted a second request, including his mother's medical history as well as proof that a month's supply of the 400 mg Gleevec pill at the Costco pharmacy was $7,500 a month.

I choked on my mint.

I had hauled in enough felons to know that $7,500 was more than enough motive for murder in Graham's neighborhood. Even if you divide by two for black market prices, when you multiply that times three, you still have a motive for murder, no question. The second request was filed first of March. As of the end of April, Graham was still waiting for a response.

I was beginning to wonder if Graham was as special ed as he was believed to be. This posting, though peppered with random obscenities, was more coherent and well stated than I would be able to manage if my mother had just been murdered. I was considering the possibility that Winkerman was right and Graham wasn't missing at all. Maybe he was tracking down the person responsible for his mother's murder. I fished another mint out of my purse, put the books back on the cart, and decided it was time to head home.

It was noon when I rolled into the lot behind my apartment building. My parking spot was still open beside Mr. Dewey's new Mustang. The Johansen's jalopy wasn't there. They were out. I set the alarm and headed through the doors.

I hesitated in front of the elevator. I didn't want to give in to fear, but in this case, it was probably wise to take the stairs, I decided. The heat index was climbing, and rolling blackouts were to be expected. I hiked up my bag on my shoulder and pushed through the stairwell door.

I let myself in to my apartment, and dropped my bag on the couch. There was a big empty space on my kitchen counter where Rex's cage belonged. He was still at my parent's house. The apartment felt empty without him. I checked the fridge for anything edible. There was a half a carrot, two eggs that were probably past their expiration date, and a moldy block of cheese. The ketchup bottle didn't hold much appeal, so I closed the fridge. I rummaged around in the cabinet for dry cereal, coming up empty. I really needed to catch Graham, I thought.

I went into the living room and sank down onto the couch. I turned on the television and started channel surfing. I settled on a re-run of The Big Bang Theory. Then I tore into the honey roasted peanuts, feeling somewhat guilty that my emergency stash hadn't lasted 24 hours. I opened a Gatorade and began to relax as the hunger pangs faded away.

Fifteen minutes later, the episode ended. I was just sealing the lid back on the remaining peanuts when I heard a ruckus outside. I raced to my bedroom window and looked down into the parking lot.

The Johansens were back. Their Volkswagen wagon didn't have AC. The windows were down, and they were having a fight. From what I could tell, he didn't want to drive back to North Dakota for her best friend's wedding. She was yelling that he owed her. He was asking her to be rational, yelling back that they didn't have gas money, the car wasn't dependable, and most importantly, they didn't have A/C. He was also upset that the wedding was in three days, and they hadn't been given any notice. Things were about to get ugly. The honeymoon was over.

I grabbed my bag with shaking hands and raced out the door in a cold sweat.

I tore through the glass doors just as Jake Johansen exited the vehicle. He slammed the door hard enough to jar his pretty young wife's teeth, all the while insisting that she wasn't being reasonable. Good thing the glass was already down, I thought, or she'd be wearing it. He had turned and was stomping off towards the apartment doors, paying no attention to me.

I knew what was going to happen next, and I watched with growing terror as Elise Johansen grappled for the door handle. She was about to throw the door open wide in a fit of rage. She was going to run after him. I could just imagine her stomping across the parking lot, indignant, completely ignoring the fact that she had just solidly dinged the driver's side door of the Panamera and set the car alarm shrieking like a wounded animal. I had to stop her. I couldn't allow another Rangeman vehicle to be destroyed on my watch.

I usually reserve running for life-threatening emergencies. I find that a sudden rush of adrenaline is required to truly motivate me. As luck would have it, I was experiencing just such a surge of adrenaline that very moment. I was also adequately fueled by the sugar and electrolytes in my system. I leaped through the air and slid head first across the hood of the Johansen's car, catching Elise by surprise.

"Stop!" I ordered. Scrambling as quick as I could off the scorching hot metal, I flung myself between the vehicles.

"Move!" Elise barked back.

"Use the other door!" I told her.

"Bite me!"

She gripped the door handle and yanked it open. I kicked the door shut with my boot, bracing my back against the Panamera in case she tried again.

"Use...the other...door!" I repeated slowly, between gasps.

Elise grabbed a two foot long window scraper from the back seat. She raised it high, took aim, and hit me hard in the shin.

"Ow!" I cried, pulling my leg back and hugging it to my chest. She yanked the door handle again, and I kicked her door shut again. She raised the scraper high, holding it with both hands, intending to do real damage this time. She dropped it with a shriek of shock and pain when I hit her with a blast of pepper spray. I hadn't planned to do it. Somehow, my hand instinctively found the canister in my pocket. It had been a reflex reaction.

"I'm so sorry," I told Elise as she retched on the floor between her legs.

As she sat up, she managed to get enough air into her lungs to start wailing.

"What the hell did you do to my wife?" Jake Johansen roared, heading back across the parking lot. I hadn't noticed him watching us from the foyer.

"She was going to dent my car!" I shouted, rubbing my leg. "Besides, she hit me first!"

"You just think you've been hit," he said, rounding the car, coming after me.

He didn't seem to realize why Elise was crying. If he had, I suspect he would have tried to knock the canister out of my hand instead of grabbing my shirt and pulling me closer. I sprayed him right in the eyes and mouth. He released me, falling back on the hood of his car, gagging.

I had to get a grip. What was I doing? I had just assaulted my neighbors over this crazy car. I needed to find my old car and give this elegant monstrosity back to Ranger. "It's just a car. It's just a car," I repeated over and over to myself. "And it's insured." I rolled my eyes. I wasn't buying any of it.

IT seemed their need for water was stronger than their need for revenge. Jake helped Elise out the other side of the car, and they ran for the glass doors. I could hear them coughing and retching inside the foyer as they waited for the elevator. I tossed the used pepper canister in the dumpster and started after them, hoping for a chance to apologize. But the elevator doors closed just as I reached them. I considered racing up the stairs to three, knowing it was unlikely I would make it in time to beat them to their door. I was still undecided when the lights went out. There was sudden silence as the Johansens were plunged into darkness. The elevator shaft erupted with her wailing, his cursing, and mingled shouts for help. I clamped my hand over my mouth in horror.

Moments later, Dillon emerged from the stairwell. Thanks to me and Lula, he knew the drill. He'd have them out in ten minutes. I gave Dillon a little finger wave as I walked out into the sunlight.

I needed a new lead on Graham. I dialed the bond's office as the A/C in the car kicked on. I angled the vents so there were at least eight of them directed at me. I was still catching my breath, and I needed all the help I could get.

"Yo," Connie answered.

"Yo yourself," I said. "Can you find out who owns the house on Weaver Street that Graham and Winkerman are renting?"

"Sure, why?"

"Graham hasn't been living there for the last two months. I'm wondering if he's still paying his half of the rent."

"I'll make some calls. Why don't you swing by. I've got another file for you."

"What is it this time?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

"Arsonist."

"Serious?" Arson was considered an art form in the Berg.

"Not really. Larry Stifkin borrowed thirty grand plus tax from a loan shark in Newark to purchase some high end stogies."

"Thirty grand for cigars?" I laughed. "How stupid can you get?"

"Actually, he got a good deal. 'His Majesty's Reserve' are hard to come by. Very limited edition. He got his hands on two boxes. If he'd sold them individually, he'd be rich right now."

"Wait. They burned up?"

"Well, first, he had them insured. Sounds like a good idea on a serious investment, right?"

"Sure, I guess," I said, scratching my head. I had never been a habitual smoker or a prison inmate, so I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea of cigars as an insurable asset.

"A couple weeks later, he filed a claim for the full amount, claiming loss by fire," Connie continued.

"Seriously?"

Connie was laughing. "Damned if he didn't smoke them all himself. His intentions were good, but I guess once he got started, he just couldn't quit. The thought of missing out on even one of those fine cigars brought tears to his eyes."

"That should be a commercial. 'You can't smoke just one'," I teased.

"Yeah," Connie gasped for breath. "Anyway, it gets better," she continued. "The insurance company denied his claim, so he sued the insurance company."

"No way."

"Yes, way. The case went to court, and the judge ruled in Stifkin's favor."

"Get out!"

"Yeah. Guess the insurance policy didn't really spell out the circumstances they were willing to cover. It just said 'in the event of loss due to fire'."

"But he smoked them."

"He signed an affidavit stating that the cigars had been lost in a series of small fires. And, as a result, he didn't have the cigars anymore, and was due the money according to the terms of the policy."

"He got the money?"

"He had his cake and smoked it too," she said. "But, as it turns out, two can play at that game. He went to the bank to cash the check so he could make his payment to the loan shark. Even with the payout, he was short the sales tax and the vig on the loan. I don't know how he planned to work it out. He didn't make it that far. He was arrested the moment he walked out the door, charged with 40 counts of arson. Apparently, it's illegal to intentionally burn insured property."

"So, he doesn't get to keep the money?"

"In the end, the attorneys are going to get it all, you just wait."

"Go figure." Damn attorneys.

"Yeah. And now he's FTA."

"I got a hit on the background check. Looks like he's cashed out his 401-K, but it's not enough. I've got guess where they are mailing the check to. If you don't catch him there, he might pop back up once he's got his debt paid off."

"Great. Loan sharks, insurance investigators, and attorneys. Sounds like a good time," I said dryly.

"Would you prefer a nice rapist or an ax murderer?" Connie teased.

"No, thanks." I knew she could probably accommodate me.

"See you in a few."

"Fine," I sighed, disconnecting.

I saw Dillon wrenching the elevator doors open as I exited the parking lot. The Johansens were clinging to each other, apparently having made up. All's well that ends well, I thought as I pulled into traffic.

I fished my cell back out of my bag and dialed Ranger.

I heard the connection. Silence.

"I can hear you breathing," I told him. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"Babe," he whispered.

"I thought you were wrapping this thing up yesterday. Are you still lying in wait for Rah Rah?"

"I thought I had him, but turned out he wasn't alone. He's careful. It'll take a while for him to get comfortable, but eventually, he'll let his guard down."

If there was one thing Ranger had in spades, it was patience. I had almost no patience. And right now, I wanted my car back.

"Ranger, we need to talk."

"Right now?"

"Yes, now."

"I don't think there's anything to talk about."

The seriousness of his tone caught me off guard.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He paused. "What do you want to talk about?"

"My car," I told him. "Where is it?"

"Why?"

"I need it back, right now. I can't believe you loaned me this car. Are you crazy?"

"I told you, it's just..."

"Yeah, yeah. I know," I cut him off. "You say it's just a car. But it's not just a car."

"Causing you trouble?" I thought he sounded strangely hopeful.

I narrowed my eyes at him, hoping he could hear my expression in my voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What's the problem, Babe?" he asked.

"You and I both know that something bad is going to happen if I keep driving this car. It's going to get dinged, crushed, or blown up. It's only a matter of time, isn't it?"

"Usually," he agreed.

"Well, the stakes are just too high this time. Can I bring it to you? I could swap it for the Cayenne."

"No. It's too dangerous. Keep it for now. I don't need it until Saturday."

"Why? What's happening on Saturday?"

"Babe," he whispered, "this isn't a good time. Later." And he disconnected.

"Wait! Where the hell is my car?" I yelled into the phone.

I decided this was a desperate situation. I had to be desperate to dial Tank. I pressed send, and grit my teeth as I waited.

"Yo," Tank answered, his deep bass unmistakable.

"It's Stephanie. I need some help."

"Are you in danger?" he asked.

"No. But I need to find my car."

"You lost the Panamera?" he asked, doubtfully. He would have been notified by now if it was car-jacked.

"No. I need to find MY car, the Dart."

"Ranger said you'd be asking for it, and if you called, I should bring it to you."

"Really?" That was unexpected. Why didn't he say so a moment ago?

"I'll meet you at the bond's office, then."

"Ten-four." And he disconnected.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of Connie's desk, looking over the Stifkin file when Tank and Lester rolled through the door.

Tank shot a look over at the leather sofa where Lula was sawing logs.

"You sure did a number on her," I told him.

Tank looked over at me.

"You know, the go-go juice?"

Tank looked confused.

"The Rehydrator. The Green Tea? Ring any bells?"

Tank looked back at Lula. "It was supposed to give her energy, not make her sleep."

"She spent a week's worth of energy cleaning her house last night," Connie said. "She's wiped."

"I could bring her something," Tank offered.

"NO!" Connie and I shouted in unison.

Tank held up his left hand in surrender. I noticed he was holding something in his other palm.

"What's that?" I asked.

Tank tossed it to me. It looked like a five-inch square, silver metallic cube. It was extraordinarily heavy, like it was made of lead, and it gleamed in places with a chrome-like sheen, with dark tendrils of earth tones snaking in and out. At first, I thought it was a model of a Star Trek Borg cube. Then, I noticed the Dodge emblem super-glued artistically on one side.

"My car!" I yelled, jumping up off the desk. "Ranger crushed my car!"

"Let me see that," Connie said, pulling the demented paperweight out of my grasp. She studied it for a beat. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Ranger didn't crush your car personally. That's my cousin Manny's work. It's a piece of art," she said, appreciatively.

Connie's cousin, Manny Rosolli, owned a salvage yard down on Stark. This wasn't the first time Ranger had called Manny to dispose of one of my vehicles. I was pretty sure the cube was comprised solely of the front bumper. I was also pretty sure the rest of the car was in a similar condition.

"I think it's one hell of an improvement," Lester chimed in.

"You would," I growled, crossing my arms and scowling at him, my lips pressed into a fine line.

"The car wasn't safe to drive," Tank said, as if that ended the conversation.

"Oh, really?" I snapped. "And Rude Tyrant's Piranha-mera is?"

Lester raised an eyebrow. "Yo, that's Rude Tyrant's former ride," he corrected. "Everyone knows that's Ranger's vehicle now. And everyone knows Rangeman is monitoring it with a very short response time. Trust me, the Governor isn't as safe as you are."

Tank shot Lester a warning look.

"What about the Governor?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. Now I knew something was up. My Spidey sense was on high alert.

"What? I'm just saying," Lester shrugged. He was back-pedaling, and we all knew it.

"Why is the Governor driving a car just like this one?" I asked, point-blank.

Tank's jaw dropped a fraction. He tried to hide it by scratching his chin, but I saw it, and he knew it.

Lester did a palms up. "Probably just because he can. Who wouldn't? It's a dream ride." He glanced out the window longingly at it. "What I wouldn't do to spend some quality time behind the wheel of that baby."

"Sounds good to me," I said, tossing him the key. "Just leave me the SUV."

Lester was practically drooling on the fob.

"No," Tank said, snatching the key from Lester and tossing it back to me.

"No?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "And, why not?"

"We're on call to back up Ranger down at the waterfront. That's not the vehicle for it."

"Yeah," Lester conceded. "He's right. But later, okay?" He said, winking at me.

I nodded, feeling momentarily defeated.

"Gotta roll," Tank said, pushing Lester toward the door.

Lester pushed through the door, giving us a curt waive without turning around.

Connie was rearranging her desk to better suit the Dart paperweight. I guessed she was intending to keep it. Like I cared.

On the other hand, it might be nice to have it handy in my bag, in case I needed to dent a skull. Part of me wanted to grind it to dust and find a way to feed it to Ranger, but the other part was aware that he was being playful. Maybe if things weren't so serious right now, it would be funny. But as it was, I wasn't laughing.

"Here." She handed me a piece of paper with a name and number on it. It was Graham's landlord.

"Thanks," I said, slipping it into my pocket.

Connie was trying to move the phone but the computer cords were tangled up with it. She gave a yank. The phone cord popped loose, and her hand struck the chrome cube. It made a graceful arc in the air before it hit the floor with a solid, metallic tang. Chunks of tile and concrete bounced up from the floor. The cube had split in two.

"Uh oh," Connie said, peering over the edge of her desk.

I bent down to pick up the pieces. There was a perfectly round, hollow sphere in the center. I tried fitting the two pieces back together. They fit perfectly. I pulled them apart again.

"Well, that's new," Connie remarked. "That little trick has Ranger written all over it."

I glanced over at her.

"It's a hidey hole. You know. For cash or a bug or..." she broke off. Connie dived around the end of the desk and scrambled on all fours, feeling around on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Or jewelry," she whispered into my ear. "Maybe there was a ring hidden in there, and it fell out."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that's romantic."

"You gonna help me look, or what? Something had to be in there."

"Maybe it's just a paperweight," I said, putting the cube back on the desk. I stood and brushed myself off. "Besides, Ranger told Tank to bring it to me if I called him about my car. It's just a sick joke. He wouldn't have had Tank bring it otherwise."

Connie sat back on her feet. "I guess that's true. Maybe Manny was just experimenting."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Well, gotta run," I said, shoving the Stifkin file into my bag. "Later," I called back as I swung out the door.

I slid behind the wheel of the Piranha-mera and sat there for a moment, feeling conflicted. Was I actually disappointed that there hadn't been some sort of...something...inside that hideous cube? What did Ranger think I would feel about his sick gift? Was he trying to get me angry? Was he just toying with me. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the soft leather, pliant under my grip. I could still catch that alluring scent of Bulgari and Ranger. I wanted to give the car back. But, on the other hand, I really wanted to believe it meant something. It felt like more than just a car. Even my Dad was convinced Ranger had an ulterior motive. And if I were being completely honest with myself, I was going to be disappointed if he didn't.


	8. Banking

I took a deep breath, then fished my phone out of my bag and dialed Ranger. His phone was off. I went straight to voice mail.

"You crushed my car," I said slowly, not feeling entirely in control of what was about to come out of my mouth. "Tank brought me the paperweight you and Manny hand crafted just for me. I'm deeply touched," I said, being facetious. "I guess this way I won't feel so bad when Rude Tyrant's former ride, aka the Piranha-mera, goes boom. After all...it's only a matter of time. Tick, tock, tick, tock." I taunted. "If you still want the car for your secret mission playing decoy for the Governor this Saturday...you better come get it! Or better yet, just send Tank, since it's not really important. After all, it's just a car. I'm sure you have three more just like it back home in Miami." And I disconnected. Let him chew on that, I thought.

Next, I dialed the number Connie gave me for Graham's landlord, Mario Nelson.

"Yeah?" a man answered.

"Mr. Nelson?" I asked.

"Yeah, whaddaya want?" He sounded old-school Italian. And like most old-school Italians, he was crabby.

"My name is Stephanie Plum. I'm a bond enforcement agent for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. I'm looking for one of your tenants. Gordon Graham."

"That knucklehead? What for?"

"Grand theft lemonade," I told him.

"Are you kidding me? Who is this?"

"I'm kidding about the grand theft. He held up a lemonade stand. It's a minor offense. I expect him to get probation. I just need to round him up, so this situation doesn't get any worse. You understand. He's basically just a kid, but he's of legal age now. Things could become complicated pretty quick if he doesn't reschedule."

"I know all about that," he said, as if he were well acquainted with the legal system himself. "To tell you the truth, I've only met him once." He paused. "Once was enough," he muttered under his breath. "I ain't seen him in ages."

"Is Graham still paying his half of the rent over on Weaver Street?"

"Sure. It's auto-deposit, like clockwork. Wish all my tenants paid like that."

"I see. That's a surprise, since he hasn't been living there the last two months," I said, prying for more.

"Look, I don't know whose coming or going at that address, and I don't care, so long as I get my rent the first of the month, ya know?"

"Sure." I said.

"I'm sure you'll find him. A guy like that ain't likely to get far."

He was about to disconnect, and I didn't have any leads. I decided to fall back on the oldest rule in criminal investigation. When in doubt, follow the money. I didn't know what good it would do me in this case, but I didn't have anything else.

"Mr. Nelson? Is there any chance you know what bank his payment is sent from? Maybe it gives a description of the transfer on your bank statement?"

"Sure. First Trenton. That's my bank too. It's just a simple transfer, account to account."

"Good to know," I said. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he said. "I'm serious." He paused. "Don't mention it."

"This conversation never took place," I assured him, and disconnected.

I drove to the First Trenton branch closest to Graham's house. I parked and checked my makeup. I added a couple swipes of mascara, a little lip gloss, and smoothed my hair back. Bankers were not usually very forthcoming. Privacy laws and scam artists were making it virtually impossible to have a serious, under the table conversation with one's customer service rep.

I swung though the doors and walked smartly to the middle aged woman at the reception desk.

"I need to talk to someone in customer service, about an account." I told her.

She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. The phone in a nearby office started ringing. I could see the person answering the phone through the glass.

Here's the thing about First Trenton. Anyone who has lived in the Berg for a few years develops a connection of some kind with the bank. It's inevitable. The tendrils of the banking grapevine are deeply interwoven into the fabric of Berg society. My Grandma's friend, Ruth Biablocki, has a granddaughter who works for the bank. My mother's friend, Emily Restler, has a daughter who earned her ten year pin a few years back. My mother likes to point out that during those ten years, she hadn't been involved in a single shootout. My cousins, Leona Freeman, Kitty Carson, and Marion Plum, also work for the bank. Between them, there had been a few shootouts. Those minor incidents always seem to slip my mother's mind when she's encouraging me to apply for a teller position. Even taking into consideration the rare shootout, a career at First Trenton would be considerably safer than bounty hunting. I just couldn't seem to motivate myself to get up that early every day.

But my most significant connection to the bank was Allen Shempsky. He was a branch manager in a Berg strip mall until I brought him in to face multiple murder charges. Guess he missed his true calling with the Postal Service.

I was looking through the glass at Rose White. Rose was a little younger than my Grandma Mazur, but they shared the same spirit. She had a quick wit, a mischievous smile, and she enjoyed playing the slots in Atlantic City. I suspected she hadn't included that on her resume. Rose had been working for Allen Shempsky while he was carving out a unique career path for himself, no pun intended.

Rose recognized me immediately and waved me in.

"Stephanie Plum," she said, rising from her seat. "Come on in and close the door," she said with a bright smile.

As I entered, Rose shot a nasty look at the receptionist, who quickly averted her eyes. Rose motioned me to a chair. Before she sat down, she unplugged the cord from the back of the phone. "This way we won't be disturbed," she said with a reassuring smile. I assumed Rose didn't intend for us to be overheard, either.

"If she knows you're doing that, she might plant a bug," I cautioned.

"Swept the office this morning," she said. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a professional bug finder.

"Does that really work?" I asked.

Rose nodded, showing me a handful of smashed listening devices.

"Nice," I said, wondering if I should get one of those for my apartment.

"I can't prove Margaret, there, is the one planting these little babies, but I know in my gut, it's her. She denies it, of course."

"What's her motive? Is she trying to get you fired? Steal your job? Get the combination to the vault?" I asked.

"No. She 's stalking my grandson, Thomas."

I wrinkled my brow at that. I had seen Rose's grandson. He was a bank executive downtown. Thomas White was in his mid-forties. He had a full head of hair and took good care of himself. I could understand how his handsome features could lead a woman to acts of obsession. Although, bugging a man's grandmother was taking things a bit far, I thought.

"He stopped in to see me a few times when I was still working at the mall. Margaret had just started working there when the whole Shempsky thing happened. Anyway, that's when the trouble started."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Anonymous love notes on Thomas' car. Letters to his house. Lipstick kisses on his office door."

"Creepy," I agreed. "And she followed you here, hoping to see him again?" I asked.

"Yes. She transferred when I did. She specifically requested the receptionist position rather than a teller position. Every time Thomas called, she would listen in. I noticed that she would go into the bathroom to fix her makeup every time he planned to stop by to take me to lunch. She'd find some reason to speak to him or 'accidentally' bump into him as he crossed the lobby. So I tried to put a stop to it. I had him call me on my cell instead of the office phone, and we would arrange to meet at the restaurant instead. That's when the bugs started showing up."

"Did she show up to the restaurants?"

"Yes, different restaurants, different days. We just couldn't seem to shake her. We even used a code, naming one restaurant knowing it meant to go to a different one. But she figured it out pretty quick."

"She probably put a GPS tracker on one or both of your cars," I told her.

She snapped her fingers. "I should have thought of that."

"Does he take you to lunch often?" I asked.

"At least once a week," she beamed. "My Thomas is a good boy. And that nosy witch can keep her mits off," she huffed, giving the back of the receptionists head a death glare. "Hey," she beamed. "I'll bet you could catch her in the act."

"No. I'm a bond enforcement agent, not a private investigator." It was the truth, even if I had a hard time sticking to it.

"Still, I'll bet you could. If anyone could put a stop to this meddling, I'll bet it's you."

"That's nice of you to say," I told her, "But that's not actually why I'm here. I need a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"Nothing that will get you in trouble," I assured her.

"When you brought in Shempsky, you probably saved my life, dear" she gushed. "Anything you need, you just name it."

"I'm after a skip. He's renting a house with a friend. I know he hasn't been living in the house for at least two months, but according to the landlord, he's still paying rent. The payments are on auto-deposit. Both accounts are with First Trenton. I'm just wondering if there is anything you can tell me that might lead me to this guy? I'm running out of leads, fast."

"Well, let's see what we can see." She started typing. "Name?"

"Gordon Graham."

"What a character!" She laughed and did an extravagant eye-roll. "What's he wanted for?"

I told her.

"I'm not surprised. I remember Gordon. And I helped him with some paperwork after his mother passed away, God bless her soul."

"Did you know Gordon's mother?"

"Not really," she admitted. "They didn't usually have enough money to keep a checking account open. They had a joint savings account their disability checks were deposited to, and a debit card for withdrawals. That way they couldn't over-draw. There were no fees. So, I didn't see much of them," she explained.

"Is that the account Gordon is using now?"

"Yes. Nothing has changed, except her checks stopped coming in, of course. And he came in with a friend to set up the auto-payment for the rent." She tapped another key. "I see the checks are still being deposited. The rent is being paid. The cash is being withdrawn down to the minimum balance each month."

"Can you see where the cash is being withdrawn from?"

"Looks like it's being taken lump sum once a month, to the penny, from an ATM at the community college."

"Every time?"

"Well, for the last few months," she said, checking the history. "Before that, it was withdrawn in odd amounts throughout the month, usually at a grocery store or convenience store."

"I would call that a change in spending pattern," I said, feeling my Spidey sense tingling again.

"Yeah," she agreed.

"What can you tell me about the friend that was here with Graham? Do you remember anything about him?"

"He was a character too. A cartoon character," she nodded, snapping her fingers, trying to recall the name. "Beetle Bailey, Dagwood, Charlie Brown..."

"Funky Winkerbean?" I asked.

"That's the one. The boy didn't like it when Gordon introduced him that way. Gordon had made up names for both of them. Gordon told me he wants to be a rap star. He's going to use the name Golden Graham. I had to try so hard not to laugh when he told me. He sure can cuss up a storm, though. I think he could make a go of it if he could just learn to make it rhyme. Do you suppose that's why he's running around with a gun? He's trying to lead a life of crime, so he can rap about it?"

I was having a hard time picturing the foul mouthed hooligan Rose was describing being the same person who wrote the post to the Trenton Times. Either Graham was brilliant, pretending to be an idiot, or he was an idiot, and someone was helping him out.

"What about his friend?" I asked, trying to steer Rose back on course.

"Oh, yeah. He was kind of funny. You know, weird funny."

"Can you be more specific?"

"He was real quiet, but he was paying closer attention to Gordon's business than Gordon was. And he straightened the chairs before they sat down, and then again, after they got up. He was very clean and tidy, too. I asked him what he wanted to be, you know, since Gordon was going to be a rapper. He got smart with me," she glowered. "He said he didn't want to work, so maybe he would go into banking."

We both paused, letting that sink in for a moment.

"Maybe he already has," I suggested, glancing back to the account history displayed on her monitor.

"You think he's taking advantage of Gordon?"

"I don't know. But something isn't right here."

It was possible that Winkerman was helping Graham find the person responsible for murdering his mother. He certainly struck me as the type who would want to see justice done. He was all about balance, after all. And helping Graham might bring that injustice back into balance. Either way, I knew he was involved.

"I'll bet either Gordon or Funky Winkerbean tries to draw that money again next month." Rose said.

I nodded. "I think you're right."

"Maybe you could have your friends down at Trenton P.D. set up a sting," she suggested.

"We might catch Winkerman withdrawing Graham's money, but that won't necessarily help me find Graham. Besides, I can't wait weeks. I need to find him now."

I felt a knot tightening in my stomach. I was once again acutely aware that the clock was ticking, not only for my bank account, but also for Graham.

"You look worried, dear. What's wrong? You think Funky's got him locked up in the basement or something?"

I had a sudden, horrifying flashback of Mooner and Dougie, chained up in a dungeon cell in the basement. I remembered their hollow, fear-filled eyes as Ranger and I opened the door. I remembered the stench, the horror of it all. My knees had buckled. Ranger reached out and held me up, despite his own injury. He had been so calm when that crazy old lady shot him. He didn't even look surprised. Ranger remained focused, as if being shot was just part of the job. I felt so guilty each time he took a bullet helping me. After all these years, it added up to a lot of guilt. If I hadn't asked for help, Ranger wouldn't have been shot. On the other hand, if Ranger hadn't helped me, there's no telling how many people that woman would have killed, aside from Mooner and Dougie. I was always getting Ranger involved in situations he wouldn't normally be mixed up in. And he always helped me without complaint. Okay, with minimal complaint.

Then again, Ranger often involved me in many situations I didn't enjoy either. The short list included planting a bug on my ex-husband and his partner. That got my name added to the list of murder suspects when the partner turned up dead. There was the time I got splattered head to toe with paint balls while trying to help him with a security breach at Rangeman. I was never going to forget the failed reality TV show featuring country superstar Brenda. And most recently, I was poisoned when he switched plates with me at his army buddy's wedding rehearsal. The frightfully altered bridesmaid's dress from hell also swam through my mind. There was no question. Ranger really was a game changer. But, at times, so was I. And he knew it. This was going to be one of those times. I was going to find Graham, and I wasn't going to stop until I located her killer, with or without Ranger.

"You okay?" Rose asked.

"Yeah," I nodded slowly. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm going to find out," I told her, seriously.

Without warning, the lights went out, and we were sitting in the dark. Our eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light filtering through the closed blinds.

"Darn rolling blackouts," Rose growled. "I lost two reports yesterday. Only half of my tickets got posted. I'll never get things balanced if they can't keep the lights on," she complained, fishing her keys out of her purse. "I'm sorry, but I need to lock the front door now. Emergency protocol."

"I understand." I said. "Thank you for your help. And good luck with the stalker."

We stood, and Rose ushered me, along with three other bank patrons, to the front doors.

"Say hello to your Grandma for me," she called after me, locking outer set of glass doors. Then she locked the inner doors and pulled the blinds.

I looked in through the plate glass on my way to the parking lot. I could see the vault being manually closed before the curtains swung shut, blocking all view. I remembered what Ranger had said about the blackouts spreading the police force thin. I guess I hadn't really considered what that meant. Like most civilians, I seemed to have tunnel vision. Cops, criminals, and opportunists, like Ranger, saw thing differently. I looked up and down the street. Businesses of all kinds had suddenly become vulnerable, as had the unsuspecting customers. I tried briefly to imagine the possibilities. The criminal element had no doubt been planning for months, hoping record highs would land them a windfall. Half of Trenton's businesses were probably being robbed right now. I could hear dozens of alarms sounding on battery backup.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Without traffic lights, intersections would be a nightmare. An unmarked car with a Kojak light sped by. I realized with relief that Joe probably wouldn't be making it to dinner tonight. I felt some of my tension melting away. I wasn't looking forward to our next meeting. I was back to square one with my car situation. I would have to catch both Graham and Stifkin before I could replace the Dart. Despite his apology, I knew that Morelli wasn't really okay with the Ranger situation. I didn't fully understand the game they were playing. I only knew I was stuck in the middle of it, and my options were limited.

I beeped the car unlocked and slid behind the wheel, turning the air on. I checked my cell. One missed call. It was from Zook. I had three bars of service. I guessed the phone company must have been granted priority power. The call I had placed to Ranger earlier had gone through too. I dialed voice mail.

"Zook here. The Golden Griefer has been spotted. Not sure what you want me to do. Just letting you know."

I texted a thank you to Zook, then relaxed back into the leather seat. Graham wasn't locked in a cellar. No surprise there, since Lula and I had already searched every inch of the house, including the cellar.

On the off chance that the cell phone was back on, I dialed the number in Graham's file. Still disconnected.

I dialed the home phone. No answer.

I dialed Winkerman. It rang, but went to voice mail. I didn't bother with a message.

I dialed Grandma's cell phone, surprised when the call went through.

"Hello?" Grandma answered.

"It's me," I said.

"Where are you? Are the lights out there too?"

"Yep."

"You're not stuck in an elevator are you?"

"Nope," I assured her. "Are you at home?"

"Yeah. It's just me. Your folks are out talking to Lou Grisham."

"The insurance agent?"

"Yeah. I guess Frank was serious about trading in your mother's Buick. I never imagined him driving a foreign car, let alone a sports car." Grandma made a clucking sound. "Do you think he's having a mid-life crisis?"

"I don't know," I said. Actually, I suspected my parents were having some mid-life fun. But who was I to judge?

"Where are you?" Grandma asked.

"I'm on my way to the house. I need a favor," I told her.

"Sure," Grandma said. "Do I need to change clothes?"

"No. Just don't go anywhere."

"Okey-dokey. I'll be here." And she disconnected.

I rolled into the driveway about three o'clock. Grandma was waiting for me at the front door with a Popsicle.

"Thanks," I said, smiling.

"Gotta keep cool somehow. Besides, they're the first things to melt." Grandma said. "So, what's this big favor? You need help with another case?" Grandma was always excited to take part in my misadventures. My mother wasn't nearly as excited about her involvement.

"Actually, I was wondering if you still have your laptop, and if you still have access to the World of Minionfire."

"Sure do," she grinned. "Why? Are those darn wood elves trying to take over again?"

"No idea," I told her. "But I'm looking for a skip who has a connection to the game. I need to know when he's online, and I need him kept busy for awhile. That's going to be your job."

"I can do that, but I'm going to need help," Grandma said.

"You think you can assemble a team by tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sure," Grandma said. "As long as there's juice. My laptop can run for hours on a full battery, but I can't connect when the cable company is down."

"We don't even know if he'll be there. But you're right. We need to be ready, the earlier the better."

"So, what are you doing while we're keeping him busy?"

"I'm going to be tracking his physical location." I hoped.

"How do you do that?"

I got a sinking feeling as I realized my only options were to ask Joe or Ranger. And I had just got snarky with Ranger.

"I'll figure something out," I told her, suddenly hoping Joe was coming to dinner after all. I felt a wave of tension returning, making my stomach lurch. "Do we have any antacid?"


	9. Dinner at Six

I took a much needed nap and woke in time to shower and change in time for dinner.

I was nervously waiting for Morelli to arrive. He was right on time, as promised.

"Joseph," I heard surprise in my mother's voice as she answered the door. "We weren't expecting you."

"I'm sorry."

I raised my eyebrow at that. He did sound contrite, but I wasn't sure why he would be sorry about arriving on time for dinner. And I couldn't believe my mother wasn't ushering him into the chair next to me on the double.

"Since you're here, you may as well join us for dinner," she said, stepping back, allowing him to enter.

"Thanks," he said, relieved.

Joe walked in and the sight of him nearly took my breath away. He was clean shaven, his hair was clean and he was wearing a dark blue button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black slacks, and dress shoes. He looked like he was going out on a date.

"Wow," I said, looking him over. "What's the occasion?"

Joe just smiled. "Like it?"

I couldn't help smiling back. I liked it a little too much.

Dad wandered in from the living room and Mom and Grandma brought the last of the food in from the kitchen. We were all seated and filling our plates, but there was little talking.

It's not unusual for my family to focus on the food, but the silence was stretching on longer than normal. Most nights, by the time Dad was reaching for seconds, Mom was making thinly veiled suggestions about weddings and grandchildren and Grandma was asking the most embarrassing questions imaginable. There was undeniable tension tonight. I squirmed in my seat, feeling uncomfortable. I glanced over at Grandma. She shrugged, feeling it too. I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging look. If anyone could start up a conversation, it was Grandma.

"So, Joe. What do you think of Stephanie's hot new car?" Grandma asked.

I choked on my meatloaf. Joe ignored the question, patting me gently on the back.

"Here," my mother said, handing me my water glass.

I took a sip and held up my hands. "I'm okay."

"You know, that's how your great aunt Jane died. Choked on a kielbassa. Of course, she was 76, and she didn't have any teeth. She had to gum everything, and I guess you can't gum kielbassa very well."

"Dear Lord." My mother crossed herself.

"You know, Frank is looking at getting himself a hot car like that. Isn't that right?" Grandma asked, trying to drag my Dad into the conversation.

He just grunted.

"Oh yeah?" Morelli asked.

Dad just shrugged.

"Mom, why don't you come help me with the cake?" my mother suggested.

"Okay," Grandma said, getting up and helping clear our dinner plates.

Dad wasn't quite through with his mashed potatoes, but he surrendered his plate anyway. This was also unusual. Even Morelli noticed.

With no food in front of him to occupy his attention, Dad reluctantly turned his attention to me.

"Got any good skip stories?" he asked.

"Yep," I told them about Stifkin and the cigars.

Dad was smiling. "Bailing out a guy who owes a Newark loan shark and still expecting to get paid. That's Vinnie for you."

"Yeah, he'd bail anyone out for a buck," Joe agreed.

"Only once," Dad said sharply, as if reminding Joe of the time he'd been bailed out by Vinnie, and suggesting that he shouldn't expect to be bailed out by this family again in the future. I could almost swear he glared at Morelli. There was some of that silent communication that men are so good at. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I knew I had missed something.

"Yeah," Joe agreed, dropping it.

"Okay. What's going on around here?" I asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Before they could answer, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Grandma called out. Moments later she returned. "Look who's here! It's Ranger!"

We all looked, but there was no one behind her. She turned to look, surprised. "Well, for goodness sake," she said, walking back to the front door.

"I just need to talk to Stephanie for a minute," we heard him say.

My mother got up and rushed out behind Grandma. "Don't be silly," she exclaimed. "Come inside. You're just in time for dessert."

The two women ushered Ranger into the dining room. Dad smiled at Ranger. Ranger nodded. Then he locked eyes with Morelli, and there was more of that unspoken communication.

"Ranger doesn't eat dessert," I said, jumping up from the table. "We'll just be a minute."

Ranger didn't look relieved. Ranger didn't have a look. His face was blank, giving nothing away. But I knew he wasn't comfortable at my family's dinner table, so grabbed my bag and walked out with him.

"So, what's up?" I asked.

He looked down at me, serious. "Give me the key."

I fished the key out of my bag and handed it to him. "Are you mad?" I asked, remembering that I hadn't been too kind in my voice mail earlier.

"Get in," he ordered.

He beeped the alarm off and we both slipped into the Panamera, Ranger behind the wheel.

"You catch Rah Rah?" I asked.

"Not yet." He looked over at me.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" I asked.

"You were playing taxi again."

I rolled my eyes. "I just gave an old man a ride in exchange for information," I told him. "That's hardly playing taxi."

"You did it in front of the 3-2 Crew."

"You mean those guys at the barber shop?"

"Yeah. That wasn't a healthy thing to do, Babe."

"I thought I was perfectly safe in your car," I said, mimicking Lester. I was being a smart ass. "After all, everyone knows it's your car now, and I'm under Rangeman protection. So, what's the problem?"

"When I loaned you this car, I asked you to go home and stay out of trouble. Instead, you cruise through the neighborhood where Rude Tyrant grew up and let some old man give the finger to his brother's boys. That never occurred to me as a likely scenario. I expected you to stay in the Berg. Not take it out of town, or...other things."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm getting used to it," he growled.

"Are you complaining?"

"Did it sound like I was complaining?"

"Yes. That very much sounded like complaining." I paused. "And I didn't leave town. And what other things?"

Ranger raised an eyebrow at me. "You know what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't know what you're talking about. I think you need to spell it out for me."

Ranger pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed a button. "I know where you are, and I know where you've been. And I know when you spend over an hour at the scenic overlook at midnight." He showed me a tracking app on his phone.

I took the phone and checked the date and time. "That wasn't me. That was the car," I told him. "Don't you have a tracker in my bag? Where was my bag?"

"You and Joe weren't parking at the overlook last night?" Ranger asked, unable to hold back the anger in his voice.

"No." I handed him back the phone. "I trusted you that the car was clean. Otherwise, I never would have loaned it to my parents." I grabbed my head with both hands. "Oh my god! I let my parents drive around town in a drug dealer's car! They could have been killed!"

Ranger sat there for a beat. "You loaned this car to your parents?"

"Yeah. Dad was crazy about it and wanted to take it for a test drive. I went to bed early. I already told you that."

"Morelli was on the scene."

"What?"

Ranger pressed a few buttons, then played an audio clip. It was a recording of the police scanner. Rangeman was always monitoring law enforcement activity from the control room. A state trooper called in his location and the plate on the Panamera. The dispatcher responded with a code I didn't understand. Then Morelli's voice came on the line. He identified himself with his number and gave a code. The state trooper acknowledged and moved on."

I looked over at Ranger. "What happened?"

"I assumed Morelli had his scanner on and he didn't want to be interrupted. He told the state trooper the vehicle was under surveillance."

"Trust me. If Joe and I were parking, he wouldn't have his scanner on. He never listens to it when he's off duty. For that matter, I don't know that he ever listens to it. He's a homicide detective, not a patrolman."

"He had it on last night."

"Maybe someone from the station called him." That seemed more likely.

We both sat there in silence for a moment, contemplating the situation.

"Dad got in a fight last night," I told him. "Grandma and I figured it happened wherever he stopped for black market cologne."

Ranger looked doubtful.

"Mom really liked the way the car smells, like Bulgari," I explained. "He bought black jeans, too."

"In the middle of the night?" Ranger raised an eyebrow.

"Mom said Dad knows a guy."

Ranger still looked doubtful.

"Hey, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

Ranger smiled a little. "Was that before or after the fight with Morelli?"

"How could Joe possibly think you and I were parking? You'd never let your guard down like that."

"He probably wasn't thinking clearly," Ranger said. "If it was dark, things might have got out of hand before Morelli realized he'd made a mistake."

"But wouldn't he have approached with a flashlight and knocked on the window, like in the movies?"

"I wouldn't."

We thought about that for a beat. Ranger was right. I remembered how they went after each other in Hawaii. Joe wouldn't have given any warning.

"That would explain the tension over dinner," I said. "Mom almost didn't let Joe in the house."

"Yeah?"

I nodded. "You shouldn't have given me this car."

Ranger took my hand. "Are you still mad at me for sending your Dart to car heaven?"

"No," I admitted. "But you didn't have to rub it in with the paper weight."

"I meant to give it to you later," he explained.

"Tank said you told him to bring it to me when I called."

"I was joking. I didn't think you'd actually call Tank."

"I was desperate," I told him.

"Yeah," he said, almost laughing. Ranger knew just how desperate I had to be before I'd call Tank.

"Is that why it was empty?" I asked.

Ranger paused.

"It fell on the floor and cracked open," I explained.

"Where is it now?" he asked.

"Connie's desk. She's a fan of Manny's artwork. Do you mind?"

"No."

"It's not like you to do something like that. I mean, I know you have a sense of humor, but, I was surprised."

"It was Manny's idea," Ranger said with a shrug.

"We figured." I squeezed his fingers. "I'm sorry for being so angry. I just panicked when I found out about this car, about Rude Tyrant."

Ranger squeezed my fingers gently in return. "I got that."

"Where is Rude Tyrant, anyway?"

"He's doing life, but it won't be a long life."

"What about his gang? Do I need to be worried?"

"Most of his gang was already inside. That's how he got busted. They turned on him for reduced time. The few that managed to get witness protection aren't going to blow it. No one is coming after the car."

"Someone told me that you keep the cars as trophies. She called it the Piranha-mera, and said that you have to think and act and look like a piranha, and that's how you live, in a piranha tank."

"It's just a car."

"You keep saying that, but..."

I was interrupted by the front door banging open. Morelli stormed out of the house. Then he slammed the door as he got in his truck and tore off down the street.

"You weren't lying," Ranger grinned, glancing towards the house. My parents were standing on the front porch. They had their arms around each other, looking down the street after Morelli.

"They've been like that all day," I said, opening the door and getting out. I walked towards my parents. "What happened?" I asked.

"Nothing," Dad said with a shrug. "Maybe he got a call."

No one was convinced.

"Ranger, why don't you come inside. I can make us some coffee?" my mother suggested. "We'd really like to have a chance to talk. You know, so we can get to know you better."

"That's one sweet ride," Dad told him. "I'm thinking about getting me one of those."

"I can't stay," Ranger told them.

"What about another night? Dinner on Friday?" Mom suggested.

Ranger looked at me with an odd expression. "Sure."

"We sit down at six," Mom told him.

Ranger nodded. He slipped the Panamera key back into my hand.

"Didn't you come here to switch cars?" I asked, walking him back to the street where the Cayenne was parked.

"I don't need it until Saturday. You can come along if you want."

"What about the 3-2 Crew?" I asked nervously.

"I'll take care of it." His fingers were under my chin, tipping my head back as he kissed me lightly on the lips. "We still need to have that talk later."

"Do we have something to talk about?" I asked, feeling a little breathless.

"Yeah," he whispered. Then he deepened the kiss, and left no question in my mind what he wanted to talk about.


	10. More Body and Bounce

I woke in my own apartment. I glanced at the clock. It was 7:00 on Thursday morning, and there was an annoying beam of sunshine dancing on my face. Groaning, I kicked off the covers and answered nature's call. I showered and changed.

I made coffee and tossed some fresh veggies to Rex. He popped out of his soup can to inspect his breakfast. His whiskers twitched, unimpressed with the carrot and lettuce leaf. He was holding out for more. I wanted something besides coffee myself. I grabbed my bag and rummaged around until I found the honey roasted peanuts. I tossed a couple to Rex and then finished off the can. So much for my emergency stash.

I fished out my phone and dialed Grandma.

"Are you up?" Grandma asked when she picked up.

"Surprisingly, yes. I need to bring in Graham today."

"Out of groceries?" Grandma guessed.

I blew out a sigh. "Among other things," I admitted.

"Well, never fear. The Minionfire Mages are here to save the day."

"They're already there?"

"Well, not yet, but they will be by nine." Grandma said.

"Good. That gives me time to ask Joe for help tracking down the Golden Griefer's IP address."

"Forget Morelli," Grandma said. "We don't need him."

"Unfortunately, we do. I can't track Graham's location without him."

"Sure you can. Zook has an idea."

"What kind of idea?"

"He said he's buddies with Graham, and that will let us find him, as long as he's online."

"First, Zook doesn't even like Graham. They're not buddies. And second, you have to have special clearance to request a physical address from the internet service provider. So, I will need Morelli." Or Ranger, I thought.

"Zook 'buddied' Graham so he could avoid running into him around town, face to face."

I paused for a beat.

"Zook knows when Graham is around?"

"Yeah, his phone tells him."

"What do you mean?"

"Zook has an app through AOL Instant Messenger that tells him when one of his 'buddies' are 'near him'," Grandma explained. "That's why he 'buddied' Graham. So he would be warned in time to duck for cover."

I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't asked Ranger or Joe for help. They both would have laughed at me if the solution were so simple a teenager could come up with it in his sleep.

"Sounds good," I said. "I'm on my way."

"I'll save you some pancakes," Grandma promised, and she disconnected.

Shortly after nine, Lula and Zook had joined us in the dining room. Zook and Grandma had their laptops logged into the land of Minionfire. Lula was playing with Zook's phone, because she was actually more tech savvy with smart phones than I was. I was standing around, feeling like an idiot. My cell phone barely made phone calls, let alone allowed cool apps. I didn't even have a touch screen.

"Here's how it works," Zook explained. "If we find the Golden Griefer is online, we'll monitor and try to engage him in a private conversation. We can't get his IP address thought the game messaging. It goes player to server to player, wiping that data from view. But most gamers use a third party messaging system called Whisper. I can get the IP from there. Lula says you saw his laptop at his apartment. We can get a general idea of where his IP address is coming from, you know, city and state, using generally available IP address databases. That will tell us if he's in Trenton, or if he's somewhere else. If he's in Trenton, you and Lula can drive by with my phone. If Graham is online, you should receive an alert. It will work for any wireless device that he's logged into, if he's got his messenger on, which he probably will."

"Please tell me with is brand new, cutting edge technology," I said.

"Nah. Dating services have been using it for a while now. Game designers use it to find out where their demographic is located. Website designers use it…"

"Okay, I get it," I said, not really understanding but ready to catch Graham. "Let's do this!"

Zook dived into the game, searching for the Golden Griefer. He made some inquiries with the wood elves. He checked with the players in Whisper. An hour later, we were still waiting.

"Maybe we need to send him an invitation," Grandma suggested.

"Can't," I said. "His cell phone is disconnected."

Zook thought about it for a minute. "What about his roommate? Is his cell working?"

"Yes, but he's hardly cooperative," I said.

"For you," Zook said. "Let me try."

Zook took his phone back from Lula, texted, waited, and received a response.

"Give him a few minutes," Zook said. "He's coming."

"What did you say?" Lula asked. "That Funky Winkerbean is not a nice guy."

"Graham likes to buy up all the gold he can. I texted that Graham's phone is off, and I want to sell ten thousand gold coins in exchange for more magic before I level up. In Minionfire, you can't take things with you when you go to the next level, except your magic."

"So, Graham is a reliable buyer?" Lula asked.

"Well, not really. He doesn't care about leveling up, because he would lose his gold. And since he doesn't level up, he doesn't have much magic. But any magic is better than leveling up with nothing. And there aren't as many players this early in the morning. It's reasonable to think that I would ask for him. He'll be on in a minute. It'll be too hard for him to pass up the opportunity."

Sure enough, Zook received a message on Whisper moments later. Zook captured his IP address and cross referenced it.

"Get going," he said. "He's using a wireless service in Trenton. He's probably home right now."

Before Lula and I were out the door, Zook and Graham were in the market place making a deal for the gold coins.

We jumped in the Panamera and took off across town to Weaver Street. Lula was watching the display on the phone. As we got within a few blocks, the "Near Me" alert sounded.

"We got him!" Lula squealed. "I gotta get me this app. This is amazing!"

We rolled up to the house and jumped out. I was ready for a take down. I slipped cuffs into my back pocket. I wished I had thought to grab a fresh pepper spray from the office, but there was no time to think about it now. My gun was home in my cookie jar, so I left my bag in the Panamera and hit the alarm button. I slipped the key into my front pocket and followed Lula up to the front door.

"Should I cover the back?" Lula asked.

"No, we're going to stick together today," I decided.

"You knock politely, he's just going to run off." Lula was right.

"I'm going to announce our presence, kick the door in, and we're going to rush him," I whispered.

"Hot damn! Now you're talking!" Lula said, pulling her .45 from her bag and assuming the Charlie's Angels position.

"No gun," I told her. "Just tackle him. He's not armed."

"But what if he's got that BB gun? I'm not just gonna stand there and let that pipsqueak shoot me with a BB gun."

"If we hurry, he won't have time to grab it," I reasoned. "Let's do this. You ready?"

Lula slipped her gun back into her bag, but now she held the bag like a weapon, ready to club him in the head with a weighted bag. "Ready."

I rolled my eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

"Bond Enforcement!" I yelled. Then I planted my boot right below the door knob and was shocked when the door was jarred loose, wood splintering from the door frame.

I race inside and up the stairs with Lula on my heels.

"Bone Enforcement!" I yelled again, rushing the room where the laptop had been last time. The room was empty. I raced across the hall, looking in the other bedroom. No one there. "Downstairs!" I shouted to Lula. My heart was pumping with adrenaline, and my desperation was clawing it's way to the surface. I was ready to tackle anyone that moved.

Lula was in front of me on the stairs, and I was about to follow her down when I felt a pair of hands hit me hard in the back. I was propelled forward, slamming my full body into Lula's back. She rolled, and we were tumbling head over heels down the stairs. They may have been covered with carpet, but someone skimped on the padding. The wood beneath was unforgiving. The stars burst before my eyes and the world swam out of focus.

I woke sometime later, sprawled over Lula's legs. We had landed halfway into the living room. I struggled to clear my vision and sit up. I smacked Lula's legs. She moaned.

"Lula," I called, struggling to my knees. "Wake up. Graham is getting away." I felt concussed, and briefly considered throwing up. I needed a new job.

"Ugh," Lula groaned. "What happened?"

"Stairs," I mumbled. "Get up. We have to go after Graham." I looked towards the front door. It was hanging open. Not a good sign.

"Who tripped?" Lula asked.

"No one tripped. We were pushed."

"By Graham?" she asked.

"I don't know," I told her.

I managed to get to my feet and started towards the door. I leaned on the broken frame, looking up and down the street. No sign of Graham or Winkerman. No sign of anyone. Then my heart stopped and my stomach lurched. I took two steps forward and leaned over the porch rail, throwing up my pancakes. The Panamera was gone. I checked my front pocket. Empty. I gripped the railing and threw up again.

When I was done throwing up, I stepped back inside. I needed to find that car, and to do that, I needed to figure out where the bastard was going. There was a strip of linoleum from the kitchen to the front door. There was a thin trail of clear liquid leading from the kitchen out the front door and down the steps. There was also a strong smell of bleach. I followed the wet trail into the kitchen to the deep freezer in the far corner.

Lula stumbled in behind me. "What's that smell? I know that smell," Lula complained.

"Bleach," I told her. I opened the lid to the freezer and had to step back. I knew that smell too. My stomach lurched.

"Don't tell me there's a dead body in there," Lula moaned. "Just rotting meat, right?"

I held my breath and looked inside.

"No body," I reported.

At least, there was no body in there now. There was a pool of clear liquid in the bottom, which I assumed was just water since my eyes weren't stinging. Along the edge of the freezer I noticed a small smear. I pushed the freezer back a little. Between the freezer and the cabinet I could see a few shards of glass. I used a paper towel to scoop them up. They were smeared with blood and some kind of light brown goop that I wasn't about to try to identify. A body is unwieldy and difficult to move alone. Since I didn't see any other blood, I assumed the body had been wrapped in plastic, and the glass may have torn through and been scraped off as the body was slid out of the cooler.

I started looking around the kitchen for clues. There was a trash can nearby. I lifted the lid and rooted around.

"Those ice bags?" Lula asked.

"Yeah. At least ten," I told her.

"What did he need ice for if he had a body in the freezer?"

The freezer wasn't on, but it appeared to be plugged into the wall. I checked the plug. I tested it with a nearby lamp. The outlet worked. The deep freeze didn't.

"Maybe it got knocked out during the blackouts," Lula suggested.

"Maybe," I agreed.  
"So, those boys don't just knock over lemonade stands in their spare time. They're killers."

"Just one of them," I thought out loud.

"Which one?"

"The one still breathing."

Lula thought for a minute. "Graham's online right now. Funky Winkerbean was just here yesterday."

"Someone was online. Someone with Graham's laptop. Graham hasn't been spotted in over two months. The only one we've seen is Winkerman."

"You think Graham is the one who's dead?"

"From what I know about Graham, he was more than capable of pushing someone like Winkerman to the brink of temporary insanity," I said.

"We calling Morelli?" Lula wondered.

"No," I decided. "We don't have a body."

"That's true," Lula agreed. "Good call."

"And the car's gone," I told her.

What I didn't say was that Morelli would be thrilled to hear that there was a dead body in Ranger's new car. He would have a field day with that one, considering it was my skip. And if Morelli was still in the foul mood he was in last night, he might find a way to have both of us arrested for murder.

Lula's eyes bugged. "Say what?"

"Winkerman took the key while we were out of it."

"Hold the phone," Lula said, sinking down on a kitchen chair. "Are you trying to tell me that, not only did we lose your skip, but he's dead, and now he's dead in Ranger's shiny new car?"

"It's worse than that," I told her. "Ranger is in the wind. He has no alibi."

"Is the car registered to Ranger?"

"I'm not sure. The DMV report lists the car in transition."

"So, can it be traced to Ranger or not?"

"Legally, I don't know. But circumstantially, everyone knows that's Ranger's car now."

"Damn circumstantial evidence," Lula growled. "Gets you every time."

"We have to get that car back," I told her.

"Well, it's a Rangeman vehicle. It's got a tracker. I can just call Tank," she offered.

"No!" I yelled, smacking the phone out of her hand. "We can't tell Rangeman. We don't want Tank or anyone else involved. They could be made out to be accomplices."

"How? They didn't murder Graham, Winkerman did."

"Prove it," I challenged. "Winkerman is a neat freak. He bleached the freezer, so there's no blood to tie Graham's body to the freezer."

"What about that glass shard?" She asked, pointing to the paper towel on the counter.

"Graham lived here. He could have been cut on a piece of glass any time. There's very little blood there. It hardly points to murder."

I nervously approached the basement door. I glanced to Lula. She grabbed her bag, and I nodded for her to pull out the .45. We cautiously opened the basement door and looked down into the darkness. I switched the light on. A bare bulb hung from a wire in the center of the concrete room.

"Here, you go. I'll wait here, doing lookout in case someone comes back," Lula said, handing me the .45.

"Good thinking," I told her. I was in no mood to argue.

I double handed the gun and descended, one step at a time. There was little in the basement but a wash and dryer, the water tank, and the heater. I looked in the dryer. Just a load of towels. I checked the washer. Another load of towels. There must have been two dozen white towels. And the smell of bleach. That made sense, I thought. The freezer had shorted out a few days ago, so Winkerman had been buying bags of ice to keep the body cold, and he was using the towels to mop up the water. He had probably pulled the drain periodically, soaked up the water with the towels, and then washed the towels.

I tramped back up the stairs and handed the .45 back to Lula. Then, on a hunch, I checked under the sink. Sure enough, I found a large box of extra large, construction grade garbage bags and a roll of duct tape. Mister Clean had wrapped the body and cleaned out the freezer. There would be very little DNA to find. The good news was that, if there was a dead body in the passenger seat of the Panamera right now, it was securely wrapped. At least, most of it was. I glanced back to the glass shards on the counter.

I dug around in the drawers until I found a zip lock baggie. I used it as an evidence bag, placing the towel with the glass shards inside and zipping it closed. I was going to put it in my bag, then realized by bag, and my phone, were in the Panamera.


	11. The Rep

Without question, my first priority was to locate and recover the Panamera. Since Winkerman took my car, I suspected he didn't have his own car. I borrowed Lula's phone and dialed the DMV, asking for Marilyn. She confirmed my suspicion. Winkerman did not own a car. He didn't even have a driver's license. I was having heart palpitations while Lula dialed Connie for a ride.

After what seemed like an eternity, Connie rolled up. We piled into her car. She had her police scanner on.

"Nothing has been reported yet," Connie said. "That's a good sign."

"Yeah," Lula said. "Just because that idiot doesn't have a license, doesn't mean he don't know how to drive."

"Sure," I agreed, nervously. At this point, I was ready to believe anything positive.

"Where to?" Connie asked.

"I need transportation," I said. Transportation that wasn't being tracked by Rangeman, I thought. "Take us back to my parent's house."

"Big Blue?" Connie asked.

"Yes."

Big Blue was a 1953 powder blue Buick, complete with white wall tires and porthole windows and miles of chrome. It was willed to Grandma by her Uncle Sandor. Like Winkerman, Grandma didn't have a license either, so she let me drive it whenever I was between vehicles. The downside to the Buick was that it sucked gas like there was no tomorrow. It was also very conspicuous. The up side was that it was virtually indestructible. I hated to say it, but I felt safe in the Buick.

"Well, how'd it go?" Grandma asked as we swung through the door.

"It went bad," I answered. I explained about the body and Ranger's car.

"Wow. Didn't see that coming," Grandma said, clacking her dentures.

Zook was still deeply engrossed in Minionfire. He had leveled up and was working on building his magic in the realm of the Mystic Pixies, deep in the forest.

"Can we keep your phone for awhile?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "If I get a call, just forward it to your granny."

"Okay," I said, not quite sure how to do that. I figured I could just take a message and pass it on.

"We need to form a posse to search out that car. He couldn't have gotten far. Especially if he didn't have a plan. Sounds like you surprised him," Grandma said.

"That's what I was just thinking," Lula said. "We need a bunch of people who can identify that car."

"I'll call the girls from Clara's," Grandma said. And she was on it. Who was I to argue. I needed all the help I could get.

"I've got to get back to the office, but I'll call you if I hear anything," Connie said, taking her leave.

"Okay. Thanks," I called after her.

I followed her out. Lula left too, with Grandma riding shotgun. Zook stayed behind. His bike was out front, but I was pretty sure he intended to mooch lunch from my mom before he took off.

How do you find a car like the Panamera in a city like Trenton without help from the police or Rangeman? Wait. How do you locate a Piranha-mera? I knew it was probably stupid, but I cruised by Graham's mother's place. It was late morning, and I was hoping Lula's know-it-all friend who told me off for dissing Ranger would have better connections than I did.

I pulled up in Big Blue, letting the eight cylinders rattle the windows of the apartment building before turning off the engine. Faces were plastered to the glass up and down the block. I walked up to the door and knocked.

The door opened and I was yanked off my feet and dragged into the apartment. The door slammed shut behind me. I couldn't see. My eyes were trying to adjust to the dark interior of the apartment.

"Girl, can't you ever drive a normal car?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Lula's friend. I recognized her obnoxious voice immediately. We were alone in her apartment.

"What the hell are you doing back here?" she demanded. "Ain't you caused enough trouble?"

"I need help," I said.

"No shit," she said, giving me the mother of all eye rolls.

"I need to locate the Panamera," I told her.

"So?"

"So, I was hoping you might have some connections, some way of helping me...without Ranger or the police becoming involved."

"Wait," she said, taking a step back, eyebrows raised. "You tellin' me someone jacked the Piranha-mera our from under you?"

I nodded. My whole body conveyed my defeated attitude.

"Oh, girl," she said. "You dead."

"No kidding," I said.

"Who jacked it?"

I sat down in the living room and gave her the short version.

"Wait. So, you got jacked by a nerdy white boy? Not homeboys. Not gangstas. And you think I can help you, why?"

"Because the streets talk. The streets recognize that car. Someone has to have seen it. Isn't there some way to ask around? Casually, you know, without raising too much suspicion?"

"And why you think I should help you?" She crossed her arms, looking down at me. "You really don't know how it works around here, do you?"

"No," I admitted. "I rely on Ranger for intel from the streets. But I need to do this on my own. And I need your help."

"Girl," she said, almost laughing. "I wouldn't even know where to start." She looked me up and down. "Why don't you ask Lula?"

"Lula hasn't been on the streets for a long time. Most of her connections have moved on."

"Yeah, that's true," she said, mulling it over. "I ain't seen her around in years."

"She's working with me down at the bonds office," I explained.

"I heard. Didn't expect that to last, though. Figured she'd be back by now." She sat down opposite me on the couch. "You been a good friend to Lula, then."

"I hope so."

She had a bright yellow sponge sitting on the coffee table with ten large toothpicks sticking out of it. The sharp points had been cut off. One by one, she started gluing long, fake finger nails to the little wooden spikes, preparing to paint the nails before putting them on.

"Around here, you don't get something for nothing," she explained. "What you got to offer?"

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I want a deal, like you got Lula. I want off this corner."

"I promise to do my best, but I can't make any guarantees. I barely pay the rent myself."

"Whose car is that outside, then?"

"My Grandma's."

"What do you drive?"

"I'm between vehicles right now."

"Wait. You a bounty hunter, and you don't even own a car?"

"Like I said, my job barely pays the bills."

"So, you ain't got much to offer," she realized, rolling her eyes at me. "May as well put on a Mr. Clucky hat." She laughed. "You want to join me on my corner?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Look, I'm running out of time, here. Please. I'm begging you. Is there any way you can help me locate Ranger's car?"

"You know he came down here last night, right?"

"Here?"

"No, not this apartment. He came to this neighborhood. Because of you."

I thought about it for a beat. "Ranger promised to take care of the misunderstanding I had with the 3-2 Crew, thanks to Norman," I told her.

"Yeah. He took care of it." She leaned forward. "Look, here's how it works in our world. Aggression equals wealth. Wealth equals fame. Fame equals success. You ain't shit if you ain't rich and famous. That's it. You get famous, you get money. Don't matter how you get famous. Maybe you a rapper, or you play ball, or you kill someone. Any way you do it, you make people know your name. People know your name, and that get you money. You get money, you show it off. The money gets you more fame and more money. Around and around it goes. That's what we call being successful. Then, you gotta be able to keep what's yours. You either prove you can kill or you hire protection to kill for you. And that's how you get respect."

"What about earning an honest living. What about character? I'd hate to live like that, constantly looking over my shoulder." The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the irony of that statement hit me. I was sick of living in fear and looking over my shoulder, and I was doing it for next to nothing.

"It's about survival of the fittest, bitch. Out here, the bullets are flying and people are dying. And that's why your man had to come down here. You dissed him when you dissed Sid."

"Who's Sid? Is that Rude Tyrant's brother?"

"Yeah. Finally, you got something right." She was shaking a dark purple bottle of glittery nail polish.

"I didn't mean to dis anyone, especially Ranger. I didn't even know Sid or Rude Tyrant existed."

"That's disrespect right there," she said, rolling her eyes at me again. "You don't know the rules of the game, you shouldn't be playing."

"I'm not playing a game, and neither is Ranger," I told her. "He may have possession of Rude Tyrant's car, but he lives by his own code. And he's a good man." I shook my head trying to clear it. "I don't care what you say. I know Ranger. He navigates his way through this seedy underworld to bring in the bad guys. He doesn't subscribe to this gangsta philosophy." I got up to leave.

She smiled. "So, you do know him after all." She opened the nail polish and started painting the fake nails.

"I know him very well," I said with growing anger.

"Good," she said. "You gonna fight for your man?"

"He's not my man, but yes, I would fight to defend Ranger. And you're wrong. He's not one of the Piranha. There's no one like Ranger."

"You're right," she agreed. She motioned for me to sit back down. "Your man works hard to try to break down that system. He's one of the few intelligent men we have around here. Ranger Manoso is no fool."

I sank back down on the couch. "What do you mean he's trying to break down the system?"

"Most men like him leave the inner city. They make something of themselves and never look back. Ranger came back, and he stays. He doesn't fit the mold. For most, fame comes quickly and soon disappears. A shooter kills until he's getting jobs, getting paid, showing off his gold chains and diamond earrings. He's got cars and women and eats in fancy restaurants. Till someone guns him down and takes his place. A rapper or a ball player has to work a little harder, but the fame still comes pretty fast, if it comes at all. For most, it never does. They're the ones stealing for drugs and liquor, wasting their lives in the gutters. Ranger's star didn't rise overnight. Everyone knows he put in his time, earned his skills. Ain't but a few men around here could physically survive Special Forces training. None that would be smart enough to pass the exams. Fools can't hardly read, most of 'em. Don't figure they'll need it. Spend their times on the basketball courts or learning to run numbers."

"They don't see education or the military as an option at all?"

"Those that do don't talk about it. They just disappear, and they don't come back. If they do, they ain't 'real' anymore. They ain't legit. You know, they ain't livin' the life no more, so they ain't one of us. And it's hard to get back in."

I nodded.

"Ranger came back with nothing. He walked the streets. He educated himself on who's who and what was what. He proved he was real. He was legit, even if he was working as a bounty hunter."

"I remember," I said. "He was working for my cousin, Vinnie, when I met him."

"Yeah. He could have come down here shooting up the place, taking over territory, taking what he could, which would have been just about everything with his training. But he didn't. And those para-military boys from South America ain't got nothing on Ranger. They tell stories about him stepping out of the shadows and taking on a dozen or more men single handed. He just picked them off, one at a time."

"He killed them?" I asked, doubtfully.

"Disabled them," she explained. "Ranger doesn't kill for money."

"But he will if he has to," I said.

"No shit," she said, as if there were plenty of stories being told about that too. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

I nodded for her to continue.

"Ranger started recruiting men off the street, some right out of prison, getting a crew together. It made a lot of people nervous. They didn't trust him, you know? Thought he might have been feeling things out, making his plans, and then, he'd take over down here."

I smiled, shaking my head.

"Pretty soon, he was driving around in fancy cars, handing out business cards. He had a big office building, and Rangeman started cashing in on the big bounties, you know, the really hard core gangstas that even the feds didn't touch."

"I was surprised at the change in Ranger's lifestyle too," I admitted. I remembered when I first noticed him wearing cashmere and listening to classical music.

"So, now Ranger's got himself famous. He's got a crew. He's got money. But here's where things don't add up with him. Ranger don't do fashion. You know what I mean? He don't come down here wearing no one else's name. He's not rocking Billionaire Boys Club, Diamond Supply, Supreme. He's true to himself, you know? Ranger don't put no one else's brand on. He is his own brand. Black on black. You know? He's so cool like that. And that says to the kids around here that handing their money over to those fools ain't cool. Why you wanna make some other fool rich? He don't give them street brands his hard earned green. Know what I'm sayin'? When the boys ask him where his bling is, he tells them their money is going right to the 1% they hate so much. There may be a street name like Jay-Z associated with it, but it's just a shirt made in China and the money goes to whatever big money corporation bought out the label. The money is leaving the neighborhood, and that isn't going to make life better on the streets."

I nodded, smiling. I used to think Ranger just didn't care about fashion, or that black hid the blood stains better, or that he didn't take time to coordinate. But I wasn't surprised to hear that the Rangeman uniform was a calculated decision.

She had finished painting the nails, and started peeling off some press on overlays, carefully applying them on top of the purple polish, so there were random white stripes criss-crossing each other.

"The other difference is, 'round here, a man seeks fame for himself, not his family or his crew. Rude Tyrant gets famous, he don't want any of his boys getting famous too. It's Rude Tyrant's show, and them boys he been hanging with better step off. Even his brother's 3-2 Crew had to watch themselves. Tyrant would remove all threats. All threats. Rangeman is up and down the coast. Ranger's got bad-ass boys from Boston to Miami. And all them boys are known. And everyone knows they doin' good with Ranger. They drivin' Porsches. They got style, black on black style with sun glasses on. But they also stay put in their communities. They are role models to the kids. Some are heros. They're real, but they're not 'hard'. They don't eat their own. They protect their neighborhoods. That's something new most of these kids ain't seen before."

I didn't think of my friends at Rangeman as being famous, but who could ever forget the sight of them? Cal with a flaming skull tattooed on his forehead and bulging biceps that would intimidate Mr. Universe. Hector with his gang tattoos on his neck and tear drops on his face was scary as hell. Ranger's cousin, Lester, with his green eyes, Latino good looks, and an off-beat sense of humor. There were so many of them, and they were all had unique personalities. I could also see how each would be intimidating in his own way. I could only imagine what gang members said to each other when they saw these guys driving down the street in a Porsche, armed to the teeth. Did they know they were probably just talking about where to get a good sub sandwich and complaining about pulling monitor duty? I didn't think so.

"Rangemen don't wear flashy jewelry. They don't parade around the streets at night with girls hanging off them. They don't take over a restaurant or buy drinks for everyone in the club. They don't make a show of throwing money around." I smiled remembering Ranger paying strippers to stay off of him at one night club we visited while chasing down one of my leads. But she was right. He wasn't making a show of it.

"There are no wild parties hosted at Rangeman," she continued. "They don't sell drugs. They don't gamble."

I had a flash of Ranger asking me to bet on a horse while I was at the track. His horse paid off five to one. He had said that even superheroes needed to have fun once in a while.

"Rangeman doesn't shake down the locals for protection. They earn their money, doing actual relocation jobs. You know what that is?"

"I think so," I said, remembering the time I had accompanied Ranger on a "redecorating job". It had involved Tank throwing a drug dealer out a third story window. I had nearly had a heart attack before realizing the scumbag was lying unconscious on the fire escape.

"But what speaks the loudest are the cars," she said, finally making her point. "Ranger always drives shiny new cars. Always black on black. Always expensive. And that Piranha-mera is the most expensive of them all."

I nodded, leaning forward.

"We all know Ranger doesn't pay full price for those cars."

"You know how he gets his cars?" I asked. I sat up and leaned forward. My curiosity was peaked.

She shrugged. "It's said that he shoots up the cars on purpose. Then buys them cheap and has them repaired."

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't get it."

"Say he corners a bad guy in a parking lot. And say, there's gunfire exchanged. Maybe there is, and maybe there isn't, but the car is going to look like it's been though a trash compactor by the time it arrives at impound. It's listed as inoperable. It goes to auction, and Ranger buys it. Two days later, he's on the street in a shiny new car. It's a mystery."

Something clicked the moment I heard the words "trash compactor". Manny was the key. Ranger probably called Manny to have the vehicle towed. Probably Manny stopped by his salvage yard and gave it a make-over. Maybe he stripped it, put on damaged body panels riddled with bullet holes and rust before he dragged it to the impound yard. No one else would give $10 for the car, and Ranger would buy it cheap. Then Manny would tow it back to the yard, polish it up, and deliver it to Rangeman.

"You know what else? The money Ranger spends on cars doesn't go to the fat cats at Porsche like Rude Tyrant's money did. It goes to the state. And we are the state. So that money stays here, in the community."

"You said Ranger takes the cars, as trophies."

She was shaking a bottle of gel clear coat now, getting ready to seal the nails. I looked on, admiring her work, even though the nails were way too long for my taste.

"A man's car is his most prized possession. It tells the world who he is. Ranger takes the cars those fools sold their souls for and treats them like they're disposable. He gets one dirty, he tosses it and gets a new one. It's extravagant, but it proves his point. Those guys are dead or in prison because they treated people like they were disposable. They murdered. They betrayed family and friends. They cut out their partners and managers. They stole a rhyme, and a future, from someone else. They did whatever they did, to have that car, to have the money, to have the fame, just to be somebody. And in the end, they are just another name on the court docket. They go away. Ranger stays. It makes you think. He's just one man, but with his crew around, things are changing, little by little."

"Really?"

"Yeah, girl. We got a new generation coming up, watching that man roll by in his Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, whatever. They see Ranger take Rude Tyrant's Piranha-mera and give it to his woman, and even if she don't get it, it means something." She shook her head. "How you think those boys gonna treat their woman? You think they gonna put her on the corner and take her money, or they gonna make sure she's respected and got a nice ride? Maybe they can afford to treat her good if they ain't gotta spend $80 on a t-shirt and $200 on a hat and $300 on sneakers, and $1000 on a gold braid? Maybe they can keep her off the corner if they got a job that don't bring the po-po after him. Then he wouldn't have to leave her every couple years." She looked sad suddenly.

"Is that what happened to you?" I asked gently.

"My man's in," she said, nodding. "Been five years. Be out next year."

"Then what?" I asked. She didn't look too excited about his return. She looked scared.

"He'll be expecting me to get him back where he was before," she said, a hard edge to her voice. "He'll be angry I ain't been saving. But there ain't nothing to save. I been without a pimp, so he ain't gotta kill no one, but that means I don't get high end customers."

"You could do so much more than this," I told her.

"Says the bitch with no car," she sniffled, wiping a tear away.

"I have an apartment, and people who love and protect me, and someone always loans me a car," I told her. "Lula has her Firebird and her own apartment. You can change your life too."

"I can dream," she said, "but that's all. My man ain't gonna let me go. We got a kid. He's with my mom."

"Then you got something to live for," I told her. "You got someone who loves you and needs you, no matter what."

"Your man protects you," she said, bitterly. "You know what he said to those boys?"

"The 3-2 Crew?"

She nodded. "He come rolling up in here last night, knocking on Sid's door. Sid was humiliated by your little performance. Fool opened the door and put a gun to Ranger's forehead."

She paused for a moment to let that sink in. "How is Sid?" I asked, assuming he was in traction at St. Francis.

She smiled a little. "Couple broken fingers is all. Ranger threatened to make him swallow all the bullets in the clip if it happens again. They sat down and talked about you. Ranger explained about Norman. They all know Norman. He's a dumb shit old man. Norman might get away with flipping the bird, but you can't."

"I wasn't flipping the bird! I was just taking Norman for a ride in exchange for information. I didn't know he was going to do that."

"That's what Ranger told him."

"So, everything is okay?"

"I told you before. Around here, you gotta give something to get something. Ranger wants Sid to forget about you. So Ranger's gotta do something for Sid."

I swallowed. "What's that?"

"Ranger's gonna forget Sid put that gun to his head."

I considered for a moment. "Did Ranger know Sid was going to pull a stupid stunt like that."

She grinned. "I think they orchestrated the whole thing."

"What?"

"I don't think Sid's got the balls to pull a gun on Ranger. Now he can brag that he did."

"But he got his fingers broken."

"Small price to pay to make it look real."

I furrowed my brow at that.

"I think he'd be drinking liquids through a straw if he really pulled a gun on Ranger," she said.

I nodded.

"I don't think I can help you find the car. But leave me your number, and I'll call you if I hear anything," she offered.

I gave her my card, and was walking out the door, when I realized I didn't even know her name.

"Thank you," I said, pausing for her name.

"Leticia," she said.

"When this is over, I would like to take you to meet Clara. She owns her own salon. Maybe she could use another manicurist."

"Girl, don't waste your time. She ain't gonna hire me, cause I ain't Berg, and I ain't got no license."

"You have talent, and you can get a license. And if you're a good listener, those old ladies tip very well."

"I'll think about it," she said. "You better get going."

I nodded, my stomach turning as I walked back to Big Blue. I was just pulling away from the curb when Zook's cell phone rang. I recognized Grandma's number and answered it.

"We've got a lead!" Grandma said, excited. "Rose White called me yesterday. She wanted me to get you to help her with her grandson's stalker."

"I can't," I said.

"Well, you better, because I just called her about Frank Winkerman. And guess what? He just made a purchase at Henderson Hardware. He used his debit card. And guess what else?"

"His account has deposits equal to the amounts withdrawn from Gordon Graham's account."

"Bingo!" Grandma exclaimed.

"Great work," I told her. "I'm headed to the hardware store to find out what he purchased. You keep looking for the car."

"We're on it!" And she disconnected.


End file.
